


Neon Twilight

by feliciajar



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 16:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 47,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7368196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feliciajar/pseuds/feliciajar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the Phantom was an EDM producer, and Christine Daaé a hopeful young talent waiting to be discovered? Modern day, electronic music AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. JFK to CDG

Christine was unusually nervous, wringing her long, slender fingers, and fiddling with the small rings she had on her right hand. The champagne was a bit of a help for the first few hours, but she couldn't afford to ask the flight attendant for another drink. She actually hadn't thought to bring any cash for the actual plane ride-- she figured she would just find an ATM once she landed to withdraw some Euro from her modest savings account she had opened up before planning the trip. She silently cursed herself, wondering why she hadn't planned more adequately. To be fair, neither her nor her immediate family had even been on a plane before. They always managed to get by with the train system back home, anyway.

Her mother… oh, her poor mother, Christine thought rather forlornly. She couldn't stop thinking about the horrid argument she had with Mamma before leaving. Yes, she knew this was a big risk, dropping her normal life in Brooklyn and trying to make a career in Paris. And she knew that Mamma only wanted what was best, but-- something told Christine that Mamma secretly didn't want her to do this. Maybe because of how her father turned out after pursuing a similar dream. Mamma was never musically inclined like her husband or her daughter, so maybe she just didn't understand. But Christine knew in her heart that she had to at least try. And though Mamma would be angry with her at first, Christine felt that she'd eventually come to understand.

"First time flying?" A warm voice said in English. Christine's head snapped up, for her chin had been tucked into her chest, deep in thought. She realized the pleasant voice came from a black and silver-haired man, wearing an expensive-looking three-piece suit. He looked older than he should--despite his graying hair and developing wrinkles around his brow, he still had young-looking eyes, shining brightly as ever. She flashed him a quick smile, as she felt like she had been gawking for a moment too long, and nodded.

"Yes, sir, it is," she said carefully. Her eyes darted back down to her tray table, since she felt too embarrassed to look at him straight in the eye after admitting the truth to him. It was obvious that the man was a frequent flyer; with his suit and slick leather briefcase, there was not a single doubt that he must be constantly traveling for business. She remembered how casually he spoke to the flight attendants when they greeted him, how easily he made himself at home in his chair. Christine, however, had immediately felt out of place: she was blushing furiously before takeoff, fumbling to tighten her seatbelt since the fight attendant had politely pointed out its looseness. And if that weren't enough, Christine suddenly recalled that a rather perky blond flight attendant who served him a flute of champagne after takeoff had addressed him by name, though she couldn't remember what his name was. At the time, Christine had thought nothing of it, but now she was silently wondering if this man was someone--well, important, someone who maybe had more influence than she originally thought. That only made her more nervous to be talking to this man, much to her dismay, but Christine resolved to keep the conversation going so as not to appear rude. Her mother taught her better, after all. "I didn't think I was going to be this nervous, but I didn’t know that--well, I didn't expect what it would--what it would be like." She silently cursed herself for stumbling around her words so much. "The turbulence…!"

The man chuckled as Christine gave a shudder that she couldn't hold back no matter how polite she was trying to be. "Oh, but you shouldn't worry, miss," he said, trying to comfort her even though it was from across the aisle. "Besides, I think the statistics say you're more likely to get hurt in a car than while on a plane, isn't that right?" He said half to her, half to himself. 

"Well, I always take the train, so I suppose I wouldn't know," Christine said with--much to her and the man's surprise-- a touch of sarcasm. It made the man suddenly burst out laughing, which in turn startled the poor girl at first. She silently congratulated herself, nonetheless. Even if it was out of sheer dumb luck, Christine had enough charm to make the businessman laugh.

"Believe me, my dear, you're in good hands," the man said before turning a little to take a sip of his drink before he settled back into his seat. He turned his head once more toward Christine before she herself turned away: "My name is Isak, by the way, if you need any help around the cabin."

Christine smiled at him even though he probably couldn't see her. "Thank you, Mr.--er, Isak. I'm Christine," as she gave her name, Isak nodded and smiled into the back of the chair in front of him. "Thank you for putting up with a silly little girl like me," she said, a little quieter this time. He only gave a noise of assent before drifting back towards his own little world of champagne and the BBC news mutely playing on his personal television screen. Quietly, he began muttering about his youngest daughter, how she was Christine's age… and then she immediately understood. Silently thanking him and his daughter, Christine settled back into her seat. 

The only thing that was on her TV screen was an aerial map of the plane's route, with real time tracking of where the plane was traveling over. Perhaps she could have changed it to something more distracting, but the blinking yellow trail of dots leading from her home city to their destination was strangely comforting. Besides, she liked imagining each city, each providence they passed over. Did someone see their plane while they were out and about on the town? What was the weather like for them? What kind of city was it? She liked to make up these little stories in her head to keep her occupied. It was more entertaining than passively watching some old TV show or cartoon, anyway.

Christine must have dozed off for a while, because suddenly, she woke up to one of the flight attendants standing over her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that they were well into their journey, passing over the Atlantic Ocean--there were no more cities to make up stories for, she thought to herself.

"Miss? We'll be serving dinner shortly." It was the blonde who had spoken so cordially with Isak. Holding a tray of wines, she gestured toward them with a practiced flourish. "Today we'll be serving a seared chicken breast with smoked potato puree and porcini mushrooms. Would you prefer a red cabernet, or white pinot grigio with your meal?"

Christine only retained about half of the stewardess's spiel, so she tried to give the simplest answer possible. "Er… red," Christine spat out quickly. "Thank you," she added hastily, giving a sleepy smile as the blonde set down a stemless glass of deep red wine on her tray. Before Christine even sat up to take a sip of her wine, another flight attendant appeared by her side, this time holding a pair of metal tongs with a white washcloth in its grip. 

"Hot towel, miss?" The woman said, giving a polite smile as she began to hand her the neat, rolled-up towel. Christine thanked her and took the towel, somewhat automatically, since it seemed the attendant was expecting her to take it despite her question. She looked down at it dumbly. What was this for? She started to swivel her neck, looking about the cabin, and it seemed everyone was either using their towel to wipe their hands, their faces, basically whatever part of their body they deemed to be the most in need of cleaning. Her eyes landed on Isak, and it was clear he read her look of cluelessness, because he chuckled a little. She shrugged sheepishly, mirroring his hand-wiping, but by the time she actually started using the towel, it had already began to go cold. After inwardly cursing her own naivete, she had hoped that this would be the last traveling tradition unbeknownst to her.

The chicken was nothing sort of delicious, and she happily savored her first bite. Once his main course was served, Christine noticed Isak had turned off his personal television and carefully laid out his silverware and napkin for the meal. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Isak had begun to say a quiet prayer, making Christine pause in between her bites. The similar twinge of guilt she felt before takeoff bubbled up again in her stomach-- Christine's mother always taught her to give thanks before eating, but when Mama wasn't around, she never really thought it would be a crime to not say her prayers. 

"You noticed?" Isak asked, smiling warmly as he reached for his silverware. Christine suddenly flushed red. She had begun to stare.

"No, I'm sorry, it's only-- what's happened to your main course?" Luckily, she happened to notice that his main course was less of an entrée and more of an appetizer-- rather than having a centerpiece of meat, his plate only looked like a mix of sauteed vegetables.

"Ah, quite observant," Isak said with a hint of bemusement. "They don't serve halal meat on most airlines, so they know me well enough that the vegetarian option will have to do." Halal--the word sounded familiar when he said it, but Christine wasn't entirely sure what it meant. Muslim, perhaps…

Isak took a bite, but then proceeded to shift his body to angle himself more towards Christine. Christine began to mirror him, shifting her plate and napkin a bit, too. She liked talking to him--it was welcomed, in fact, considering she had been very much alone for the entire day. He was kind, and Isak seemed to be in the same position as her--eager to start a conversation after so much traveling on his own.

"Now, I have been wanting to ask you this, so forgive me if I sound forward," Isak began. "Are you a musician?"

Christine's eyes started out of her head, this time fully surveying Isak before answering. There was a twinkle In his eye, and while she knew it was a perfectly innocent question, the thought couldn't help but pop into her head--how did he know all this time? He did say he had been wanting to ask her, maybe there was something that gave her away? This suddenly began to change what she thought about Isak, too. Perhaps he was not merely a casual acquaintance during a foreign flight. Suddenly she sat up straight and took care of how she responded, making sure she did not give anything else away if she already had.

"It must be you who's more observant than me, it would seem, Isak," Christine said rather coldly. She tried to maintain a friendly air by adding, "But--how could you have possibly known?" Despite staying relatively composed on the surface, she was panicking inside: Why had she been so open with him? How does she know he wasn't lying with every breath? She chided herself for not having more--

"It's a gift," Isak suddenly interrupted her train of thought, which had been going at light speed until now. "I have a knack for sensing those who are more musically inclined--especially singers." As he said the last two words, his large brown eyes seemed to bore into Christine. This made her very skin crawl.

"But how?" This time Christine couldn't help but say exactly what she was thinking. "You mean you could only tell by how I-- how I talk?"

Shrugging, Isak only half-nodded. "Well, yes and no. It's more of the cadence, the rhythm of your speech, along with the tone and your diction--so, it's actually a number of things. But yes, in a way, I can tell by your speech." He paused, taking a moment to study Christine. "I'm sorry if I put you off, I don't usually come off as this forward." Obviously, he must have detected some sort of uneasiness, she noted. Nonetheless, amidst all of her anxious thoughts and wonderings, an idea suddenly struck her.

"So you're a musician, too?"

Isak gave the smallest chuckle. "I used to be," he amended. "That career path was not for the likes of my--well, my yearning for stability, shall we say. I was better off wearing a suit and making the deals for the musicians, instead." He laughed even harder this time, as Christine's bright eyes started out of her head. She must have been staring at him like he was some mythical creature, something she had previously believed to be purely fictional until now.

"You're a manager," she stated. This time it wasn't a question.

"Wrong again, Christine. I was," he corrected her once more, before taking a big bite of his dinner, which had begun to grow cold. She quickly did the same, shoveling lukewarm pieces of chicken into her mouth, allowing her to mull over this new nugget of information. Before she left, Christine was given a token of advice from one of her classmates at university. It was something that stuck with her, not because of its profoundness but because of how much it surprised her. Success as an artist is about who you know. You could have all the talent in the world, she was reminded, but without the right connections, she may never advance her career. The challenge at hand was this: how was she to convince Isak to help her through the door of the music industry? She didn't want to come off as a desperate girl with a pipe dream--rather, she didn't want to let him in on her lack of progress as a real musician. Yes, the matter had to be approached delicately.

Her first thought was to give Isak a few of her demos. Christine had a handful of ideas on her PC, and while they may not be much, she still took pride in them. After months of teaching herself the mixing programs, the tracks were at least halfway decent. They weren't exactly revolutionary or earth-shattering, that much she knew. But it was all her--the producing, the songwriting, the editing was all from her hard work. No, she thought. That's far too clichéd, handing out her work to anyone who would listen. Peddling her songs to someone who had--perhaps he still has, she thought--significant influence in the music industry isn't the best idea, anyway. For all she knew, he could pass it on to another producer and use it for their own track.

The only viable solution Christine could arrive at was to just… ask. She didn't want to deceive him, nor did she want to try and make some sort of a bargain. Owing a debt was something she'd prefer not to do. What if he still proposed a deal, a bargain, no matter what? Well, she thought, the only way of knowing was to ask. Another mantra echoed in her head, something that her father had once said long ago: You have not because you ask not.

"I'm actually interested in the French EDM scene," Christine started slowly, choosing her words with great care. She wanted to be as diplomatic as possible, that is, she wanted to ask for a favor without having to grovel for it. "Do you… know anything about that part of the business?" 

This time, it was Isak whose expression was more surprised. "Actually, yes," he allowed after a moment. Much like Christine's progression of emotions, he began to look more suspicious instead of surprised. She just sat there, waiting, not daring to breathe until he finally spoke again. "I know… well, I was acquainted with a few producers while I was working in the industry, in fact, I represented a few." Isak gave another pause, trying to read Christine's reaction. Still as a statue, Christine did not move an inch. She just gazed at him with her glassy eyes, silently prompting him to go on. No way was she going to spoil this chance for an opportunity. She wanted this far too much.

Isak took this moment to throw the ball in her court. "Are you interested in producing?"

Christine hesitated a moment before answering. While it was true, it was… complicated, to say the least. "Yes, but I can do so much more," she said with earnest. "I'm classically trained, I can sing any genre, I--" she stopped herself before she began to ramble. Laughing at herself inwardly, Christine realized how difficult it was to keep her excitement about all of this. "What I'm trying to say is… I have a lot of different skills, but I think I'm most interested in learning to professionally produce. That's an invaluable skill to have as an artist," she went on. "I want to be able to… translate my own ideas and melodies into something tangible, something that I have already envisioned." She noticed that after saying all this, her whole body was leaning much closer to Isak, and their eyes were locked. While she hoped it didn't come off as too strong, she knew nothing was more imperative than emphasizing what she imagined for herself. The last thing Christine wanted to become was a puppet for the music industry, being handed sounds or beats she didn't particularly care for and having absolutely no knowledge of how to engineer her own ideas into the work.

This time, Isak countered quickly. The conversation had quickly turned into something of a conference room meeting, Christine thought. "But if you want to produce all your own work, how will other talent want to work with you? Collaboration is key when it comes to making something good into something great," he insisted.

"I completely agree," Christine countered emphatically. "Collaboration is so important, but I still want to be able to communicate as a producer to another producer. Does that make sense?" She asked. "I don't want to be speaking Spanish to someone who speaks Japanese."

Isak nodded, this time leaning back in his seat a little and resting his chin in his hand, looking pensive. Was he… impressed? It looked like wheels were turning in his head, so that had to be a good sign. Don't get your hopes up too high, she told herself. 

"Where do you see yourself in 10 years, Christine?"

Christine opened her mouth to speak, but she was interrupted by the PA system. The captain was addressing them from the cockpit: "Ladies and gentlemen, it looks like our arrival time will be earlier than expected. We will be making our descent into Charles de Gaulle airport in just under 30 minutes. Weather in Paris, France is currently overcast with a bit of a chill in the air, so be sure to put on that jacket before you disembark. Please make sure your seat belts are fastened and that your tray tables are in the upright position for when we begin our descent. Thank you and we appreciate you choosing American Airways."

They couldn't help but chuckle to themselves--they had completely lost track of time. "Perhaps I should give you the short answer, Isak?" Christine offered.

"Yes, if you please," Isak said politely. His air was much more pleasant with the knowledge that this conversation would be short-lived. This actually relived Christine a little--the reminder that they would inevitably be parting ways seemed to lighten the mood considerably. 

"I want to be touring a platinum album," she said frankly. Her eyes brightened at the very thought. "I want to bring heart, soul, and artistry to the scene. I want electronic soul," she said truthfully. "French EDM used to have that. It's disappeared, Isak, I haven't seen it for quite some time. And I want to bring it back." She looked at him and smiled a little, feeling proud, but still the smallest bit embarrassed for being so upfront with him.

He surveyed her again for what seemed to Christine like ages. She couldn't help but feel like Isak was staring at her like some kind of puzzle he couldn't figure out. Whether he was more impressed or shocked, Christine had no idea. But, suddenly, in a flash, she found Isak reaching for something in his back pocket. In a matter of moments, Christine was cradling a small, white business card with his name printed in bold: ISAK KHAN. Other than his number and e-mail, there was no other information. No job title or company name from what she could see.

"When you're settled in, call me and we can talk more," Isak said. "I may have some ideas for you, if you're willing to collaborate," he gave her a knowing smile. Her heart was doing cartwheels in her chest; Christine wanted to let it all out by dancing and singing all that she felt, but she managed to restrain herself. That wasn't too hard to do, considering she was sitting in a cramped seat with a seatbelt, but she felt so relieved. Maybe this was the start of something great. Something that could be the first step on her journey to living her dream.

"Isak, I… I can't begin to say how much I appreciate this," Christine said. "I don't know what I said to convince you, but please know that I want this. I want this more than anything I've ever wanted, and I've spent the past six years learning everything I possibly could to get… well, to realize my dream." She smiled and clutched the card to her chest. This time she couldn't hold it in, and gave a wonderful, great laugh that let out all her happiness of that moment.

\---

Isak smiled back at the young girl, marveling at how utterly joyful she was holding that tiny little white card in her hands. He assured her with words of encouragement, and then after a few moments, she excused herself to run to the lavatory before they started to descend into Paris.

His mind was reeling. What were the odds that this person, this young girl would just drop into his lap? Echoing the same sentiments that he had heard only but a few weeks ago before he had departed for New York? Maybe it was more than a few weeks, he allowed himself, but nonetheless… 

Suddenly, he pulled out his phone, making sure that there were no fight attendants to scold him for even taking it out of his pocket. Isak had connected to the plane's WiFi as soon as he had boarded, but this was more out of habit than necessity-- he always liked to keep himself connected in case some sort of crisis with the management firm should arise while he was en route. He found the contact in his address book he was looking for and tapped "new message", giving him a blank screen to start typing. Without missing a beat, he wrote nothing more to the recipient than, "I found you a partner. Will phone later."


	2. Meeting IRL

After a few cold splashes of water, she stared into the mirror, inches away from the reflection. She studied her own hazel-brown eyes carefully, watching them slowly dilate and contract. This is real, she reminded herself. This wasn't a dream. The water slowly dripped from her cheeks, down her jaw line, and fell into the sink underneath her. Christine watched herself breathe for a few more moments before she moved again.

When she did, it was out of pure, unadulterated joy. She spun around in circles, bounced up and down, trying to let out all of her energy as much as possible in the tiny, cramped bathroom in the back of the airplane. She grabbed the pair of headphones that she'd left dangling around her neck, plugged in her mp3 player, and cranked up the volume and she found the perfect song to go with her small yet exciting achievement. Was this the beginning of it all? Maybe, maybe not, as she slowly came to realize the uncertainty of what had just happened. Nevertheless, it was a step forward. She looked in the mirror once more as the loud bass and vocoded singing thumped through her headphones. Christine then reminded herself of one thing, mouthing the words quietly: don't give up. This opportunity was just that--an opportunity. It wasn't a guarantee; neither a promise nor an indication of what could happen when she started 

Still, Christine couldn't help but feel anything less than giddy. This had to be the start of something; she could sense it. Her conversation with Isak felt so warm and genuine, that is, it seemed so unlikely for him to be putting up a front. Christine allowed that she was an easily trusting person--much easier than most, in fact. But following her gut instinct got her to where she was now, hadn't it it? Her stomach churned after exploring the uncertainty of the whole situation. She had no idea of what the future held, that was all she could surmise right now. But she'd be damned if what just took place didn't motivate Christine even more. Silently, she made a vow that no matter what happened, she would never stop working on her music. 

With that resolve, an idea suddenly struck Christine like a ton of bricks. She whipped out her phone and opened the voice memo application. Thank goodness for these things, she thought to herself. She pressed the bright red record button, creating a file named 'New Recording 124', and her phone began flashing the familiar countdown at her, prompting her to begin. Christine started to quietly vocalize, no lyrics, but a definitive melody in a major key. It matched exactly what she was feeling now, and she even had the confidence to pepper in a few falsettos and vocal runs. It was hopeful, it was exciting, and it was full of anticipation. It was only an unsatisfied, unfinished hook for the time being, but Christine silently hoped a resolute chorus would come to her--something that followed through in the melody--sooner rather than later, she thought rather poignantly. With a few unceremonious taps to the touch screen, she ripped off her headphones, stuffed her phone into her pocket, and hurried back to her seat upon the sudden realization they were about to land soon. Not to mention Isak was probably wondering what the hell was taking her so long, she thought with a twinge of embarrassment.

\--

Less than an hour had passed, and Christine found herself in the back of a speeding car. To her left, a platinum-blond girl, barely reaching 5 feet tall, was babbling excitedly with a French accent. Prior to today, Christine had never seen this girl in the flesh before. It was strange, no doubt, but at the same time, it wasn't completely uncomfortable. It was a lot like Christine expected Meg to be like in real life.

"Christine, you really need to practice your French, if we're being honest," Meg stage-whispered. "The Uber driver didn't seem, ah, particularly pleased when you spoke in English." She gave a mischievous grin, and Christine rolled her eyes.

"Shut up, Meg," Christine said playfully in response. "Look, I'm really trying here, I have an app and everything, but when I'm put on the spot, I--ugh, I dunno," Christine sighed, slumping against the back seat. "I choke, I guess. Promise we'll practice around the house?"

"Mais oui," Meg responded in her effortless native tongue. "You are right, though, there's a big difference between writing and speaking. I guess I hadn't really thought of that when we were chatting online," she offered. 

The driver hung a right turn, throwing around Meg and Christine in the backseat rather violently. Meg started to berate him in French; at least, that’s what Christine surmised from how curtly she was speaking to him. Or perhaps she was giving him directions—yes, that was it, Christine realized as Meg leaned forward, gesticulating rapidly various shortcuts towards her apartment. Christine felt a twinge of guilt as she lost track of what her friend was saying to the driver—Meg was right, she really needed to brush up. Everyone here seemed to speak French at least twice as fast as she was able to keep up with.

During a lull in their chatting, Christine's thoughts couldn't help but wander back to Isak, and their parting words as they deplaned. He had expressed that he was looking forward to seeing her again, and while Christine thanked him politely, giving a serene smile, her heart was hammering in her chest all the while. She assured him she'd get in touch with him as soon as she had settled in--Christine decided that was a decent response; not too desperate, while not seeming too standoffish, either. As soon as they had parted ways, she pulled out his business card and typed in the phone number and e-mail into her phone's contact list. There was no way she was going to risk losing this potential foot in the door--

"So, what are we going to do tonight?" Meg bounced up and down excitedly in her seat, interrupting Christine's pensive state of mind. As she turned to Christine, tendrils of her white-blond hair bounced about, framing her olive-skinned, heart-shaped face. Christine was reminded of their first time video chatting; she marveled at how her deep, tanned skin contrasted with her bright, blue eyes and pale hair. Her eyes were a naturally occurring color, but she knew Meg religiously went to the salon to get her hair bleached. Christine recalled Meg choosing that shade because it made her look like a young Donatella--was that her name? Christine thought absentmindedly. Meg looked over at Christine expectantly, but her face fell a little when her friend failed to match her demeanor. Christine was still flopped back into her seat, looking less than energized. "Don't tell me you have jet lag," Meg added, scrunching up her face. 

"Meg, merde, I've been travelling literally all day," Christine said helplessly. "Can't we just jam to new music and, like, chill at your place? You have to show me around anyway." Christine smiled to Meg in such a way that she knew she was right. "I can't properly settle in until I get the entire, official tour of the Giry Chateau, you know."

A deep, gravelly voice from the front of the car carefully cut in to the conversation, murmuring something in French that Christine couldn't completely understand, but could figure out well enough: The car had slowed down, beginning to pull up to an apartment building, and he glanced at them through his rearview mirror expectantly. 

"You're getting the heavy one," Meg muttered to Christine as she jerked her head back towards the trunk. "Honestly, how much shit did you pack, your entire hard drive of music? I hope you packed at least some halfway decent clothes for when we go out…"

Her voice trailed off as she scrambled around for her purse. With some assistance from the driver, they managed to haul all four bags out of the trunk and to the apartment's walk-up. Christine secretly hoped the driver would have offered help, considering she didn’t have the confidence or skill to directly ask, but once he had the fare money in hand, he had all but ran back to his car before either of the girls could try asking him. "Guess it's just us," Christine said rather sheepishly.

Meg just rolled her eyes. "Next time we need a favor from a strong man, let's wear lower cut tops," she chided Christine, waggling her eyebrows suggestively. 

Christine made a noise of disgust, turning away from her to start lugging the heaviest suitcase up the flight of stairs. "Oh, so that's why you were asking why I packed cute clothes?" She called out over her shoulder. "Not because you wanted to steal them?" She clearly recalled Meg oohing and aahing over some outfits of hers from past video chats. They discovered some months ago they were the same size, so Christine could sense a wardrobe swap happening sooner than later. Meg was also the type who hated to wear the same outfit twice, and she had a very particular eye for fashion, which actually could play to Christine's advantage--she thought about how expensive shopping in Paris would likely be, so the more access to different clothes, the better for her wallet, she thought happily.

She couldn't hear Meg's reply because she had already managed to round the first flight of steps, surprisingly. Luckily, she had remembered Meg's apartment unit from when she would send her friend the occasional care package over the years, so she knew she only had to go up one more level to arrive at the door of what would be her new home. 

A brief thought flashed into the forefront of Christine's mind. This was it, she thought. This was the beginning of a new chapter. This was the chapter that she had been working so hard just to start writing it. Crossing the threshold into Meg's--now Meg's and her--apartment was very much the beginning of the beginning, Christine thought as her chest expanded with hope and pride. Behind her, she could hear Meg's chattering growing louder, but she couldn't seem to focus on it just yet. Christine took in everything at this very moment, closing her eyes as if to absorb everything as a camera shutter would, from the weathered blue and ivory paint, the sight of some old receipts that had been strewn about the floor of the hall, the slight scent of her scarf, how it smelled of both home in New York and the synthetic leather of the airplane seat she had sat in for so many hours, Meg's voice echoing up the stairwell, and Christine's feeling of hope and excitement of what the future held. What Isak's conversation could mean for her, and--

"Christine! Did you hear anything I said?" Meg shouted even though she had already reached the top of the stairs. For such a small girl, Meg carried a large set of lungs, Christine noted to herself fondly. "We're going out tonight, and that's that, I don't care how much energy drinks or cups of coffee it takes to get you back up and running. Jammes has some great clubs in mind, and she knows what kind of music we prefer, too--" she stopped momentarily, grunting to set down the last of Christine's bags so that she could dig in her backpack for her keys. Once again, Meg impressed Christine with her strength for someone barely five feet tall. "I can't wait for you two to meet, by the way, I know you'll hit it off," she added hastily before unceremoniously shoving a large brass key into the door handle. With a skilled and well-practiced movement, she jiggled the handle with one hand and simultaneously shoved the door open with the opposite shoulder. Meg must have felt Christine's stare, because she jerked her head up and began to turn slightly pink. "The damned super, she still won't fix the door…" She shrugged it off, and instead plastered on a big smile. "Are you ready?"

Christine took a big, sharp inhale, shrugging and laughing, looking a bit earnest when she replied: "As ready as I'll ever be!"

"Welcome… to Chez Giry!" Meg announced, swinging the door wide open, both for dramatic effect, and so that she had plenty of space to begin dragging in Christine's luggage. 

Christine had something of an idea of what Meg's flat looked like, after all, they had had countless hours' worth of conversations via webcam. Some days, Meg would be lounging in her bedroom, other days, they would have dinner dates in the kitchen, or movie nights in the sitting room. She more or less knew what the place looked like, but to see everything at once, in real life, high-definition, without poor lighting or a bad internet connection to obstruct her view--it was something entirely different. 

She drank in her first glimpse of the flat: upon walking through the door was a small entryway with a table of mail, dance programs, and keys strewn about, with a very full coat hanger neighboring it. The other end of the hallway led to a kitchenette with a small breakfast nook. Christine was most impressed just by how much Meg was able to cram into such a small space--not in a cramped sense, just in the sense that she was extremely economical with what little she had to work with. Every wall and corner had at least one set of shelves, completely filled with things like books, magazines, old French vinyl records, and antique dance figurines. Where there weren't bookshelves, the walls had colorful, graphic, modern renditions of dancers posing or leaping about candidly. As Christine started to make her way down the hallway, she noticed a small photo framed, it looked like Meg and her ballet friends tried to recreate a Degas painting, complete with the proper ballet skirts, the high angles, and the impressionist feel. They must have worked hours to get it just right, Christine thought to herself, smiling softly. 

"Christine, there's a set of keys on the table in that hallway for you," Meg called. She jerked up out of her reverie, and Meg's voice had become disembodied since she had already disappeared around the corner, past the kitchen. Christine pushed the remainder of the luggage into the hallway, closed the door behind her, and on her way to locate Meg, swiped a small set of keys that had been placed carefully on the edge of the table. A tiny pair of headphones dangled from the keychain; pink and bedazzled.

"Meg, this is awesome, your place--" she stopped in her tracks, realizing that after rounding the corner and veering to the left, she had landed in the living room. It was overwhelming, with just as much--no, far more than what she first saw in the hallway. And it was wonderful, Christine couldn't help but think as her gaze slowly combed through the room. There were pillows, candles, fairy lights, and an impressive set up of a futon and large cushions in the corner that all somehow puzzled together into a large sofa, perfect for sprawling out and watching movies on the small plasma screen hanging from the opposite wall. Pinks, purples, and soft yellows and golds filled this room, with so many nooks and crannies of different mementos Meg had collected over the years. Christine yearned to sift through every single one, wanting to pick each one up, examine them carefully, and have her friend explain each of their origins. There were so many memories in here, and even though she had never been here, Christine could sense the love and care Meg took to keep everything in its place, from the candles arranged on the ledge of a bookshelf to a soft pink lampshade that casted a warm glow around the whole room. She couldn't wait to drink tea and snuggle up in a large blanket in this room, or build a pillow fort with Meg on rainy days when they felt like being kids again.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" Christine jumped about a mile in the air, giving a small yelp.

"Meg!" She said breathlessly. "For someone who can be so loud, you really know how to sneak up on someone," gasping while her friend just cackled in satisfaction.

"Well, you were spying on my things, weren't you?" Meg said. She looked rather forlorn suddenly, to Christine's confusion. "I mean, what do you think, really, Christine? Is it all terribly tacky? My mother thinks so, she always talks about coming in here to throw away all this junk and make it look like where a real lady lives."

"What? No, of course not!" she exclaimed, this time reaching out to grasp Meg's shoulder. "This is amazing," she said earnestly, looking into Meg's doleful eyes. "Meg, this is you. This feels like home already. I mean, I've never actually been here, and I feel home. I mean it."

Meg's eyes suddenly began to water, turning Christine's reach for contact into a full hug. She embraced Christine both gently and with gusto. It felt wonderful, Christine thought absentmindedly, to be able to hug someone she'd known for years but had never been able to until now. "Christine, I'm so glad you're here," Meg said, her voice being muffled by the scarf Christine wore. She hugged her dear friend tighter, this time noticing her voice catching. "Seriously! I don't know-- I don't--" 

"Shh, mon ami," Christine said, rubbing Meg's back soothingly. She guided her to the futon where they both sat down, and Meg grabbed a feathery pink pillow to hold onto, wrapping her arms around it so she wasn't enveloping Christine anymore. Now she could see the poor girl really was crying, tears starting to trickle out from her long, dark brown lashes. Her long hair spilled over her shoulders as she bent down, nuzzling her face into the pillow for a moment before she found the strength to speak again.

"Christine, I didn't want to tell you this, I didn't want to worry you," Meg started to say. She had to stop herself several times, using her pillow and Christine's soft sounds of comfort as her means of encouragement. "Mother--mother almost made me move out," she said, tears falling still. "She almost made me quit the ballet."

Christine stayed silent, letting her expression urge Meg to continue. "Mother thought I would be better off going to a real university, you know, like studying business or--or something, I dunno."

"Meg, your mother probably only wants what's best for you," Christine said quietly. "Maybe she wants you to have a better life than she did, you know?"

"Well, that's all well and good, Christine, but when your mother thinks you ought to break up with your girlfriend and marry a man with money so he can take care of you and your poor mother…" Meg's voice began to lose its sadness, the tears began to stop and instead her brow furrowed, letting her anger and resentment take over her visage. "Christine, when your mother basically tells you you're not good enough, that's pretty much the worst feeling I can think of." Her blue eyes, their whites now tinged with red, shone back up at her friend.

Christine was once again silent, but this time because she had arrived at a loss for words. All she could do was take Meg's hand, squeezing it tightly as her thoughts raced. Move out? Leave the ballet? Did Madame Giry really think that poorly of her own daughter?, Christine thought with a twinge of despair. Sure, Meg liked to complain about the long rehearsals and difficult choreography they had to learn, but never did she seem dissatisfied with her work. She enjoyed dancing, Christine knew that much. What was more surprising to her was the fact that her mother didn't approve of Meg's relationship--possibly even her sexuality, she realized as her stomach lurched with worry.

Christine elected to voice her concern in the most optimistic way possible. She didn't know the whole story, and she thought it rude to pry, even if Meg was a close friend. "Well, you're still here, aren't you? I'm here with you now. Did she change her mind?"

Meg shrugged, flicking a piece of hair away from her face. "I really don't know, Christine. She doesn't bring it up anymore, not since I told her you were moving in. I mean, it's not that she's changed her mind, I think she's just talking to me less. I like to dance, sure, but I like exploring different things she would never dare to, and I think that scares her. She knows I'm not her little girl anymore, and I think that's freaking her out, more than anything. When I told her you were coming, she seriously thought that you were either a new girlfriend, or some crazy American that would just be a terrible influence," she said, laughing in disbelief. "I can't wait to prove her wrong."

After a moment of pause, Christine tried her best once again to understand. "I think you're right, though. I think she's scared. That's normal. And maybe once she gets to know me, she'll understand. I don't want to lecture you, too, but don't let her affect you too much. You know in your heart you want to dance, right?"

"Yes, but… with the Opera?" Meg looked torn. "I really don't know, Christine. It's not that I hate it. There's so much more I want to try still."

"Then try everything," Christine insisted. "That doesn't mean you have to leave the Opera forever, or even leave it completely for the time being, you just need to try other things." 

Meg looked rather pained upon hearing this, but despite her initial reaction, she nodded, looking down back at her pillow. "You're right," she said, half to Christine, half to herself, tracing patterns along the stitching of the cushion. "I can't leave the corps, it would be too much for Mother, though. I'll make it work--somehow."

Christine leaned over for another hug, savoring being able to hold her friend anytime she wished. "I know you will, Meg. You're so strong, and you are an amazing dancer." Letting go, she looked her in the eye, giving her a slight smirk. "That may not mean much from me, though, I have two left feet compared to you."

"Shut up, Christine, you walk like a Disney Princess. You glide, with such grace, too," Meg insisted, joining in with Christine's soft giggling. They exchanged a brief look, as if to silently thank one another. 

Meg needed her so much right now, just as Christine needed her. 

Meg got up to leave the room, calling after her friend to come and see her new room, and as Christine got up to join, she couldn't help but instinctively reach into her coat pocket and brush her fingertips against the business card Isak handed to her. Why haven't I told Meg yet? She chided herself silently. But, the more she went over it in her head, the more she felt it right to keep this to herself. Perhaps her family's superstitious ways were getting the better of her, but she felt it wrong to share it right now. Maybe it would jinx what had happened, or somehow ruin the perfectness of this unknown journey Christine knew she was about to embark on.

When the time was right, though, Christine promised to herself, Meg would be the first to know. 

Xxxx

A quiet chime trilled, slicing through the still air. It was left unnoticed for its owner had a large pair of wireless headphones, hands deftly moving from a midi controller, to an electronic keyboard, to a computer keyboard with accompanying monitor. Buttons illuminated every few seconds, and the computer captured every movement, every button pressed. Anyone else wouldn't be able to keep up if their life depended on it. He was creating and conducting a symphony at the same time.

The vibration of the cell phone eventually broke his concentration. Cursing silently, he threw off his headphones and mashed a button on the computer keyboard, stopping the current track recording. Four different mixes on the screen halted in their tracks as he pawed around for the phone.

"Khan, this had better be good," he seethed, venom dripping around every word.

"Save the lecture, Erik, I know you're--working, but this is important." Isak sounded like he was in public, for his softened voice was hard to distinguish from all the street noise and passerby in the background. "I… I think I found someone."

Erik was about to spit back another retort, but Isak's tone made him falter. He paused, thinking about what this could mean. After almost fifteen years together, Isak Khan never believed that Erik would be able to work with a partner. This was unprecedented. Perhaps this was some kind of joke, but Isak was also not one for practical jokes, either. "How do you know?" was all Erik could manage to say.

"Erik, if I knew, I'd tell you. We're meeting again and I'm going to get a copy of some of their demos, I'll hand it off to you then."

"Oh, I can't come?" he shot back, this time tinged with the same kind of attitude when he first answered the phone. "Please, I'll promise I'll be good," Erik pleaded mockingly. Even he couldn't help but share a small chuckle with Isak.

"Seriously, I--I don't know, Erik. There's something about her. Something I've never seen in anybody else when she talks about music… except you."

Her. Erik's heart skipped a beat. "Her," he echoed back hollowly. "Where you get off, picking up a female musician?" He deflected his momentary panic with another sardonic remark.

"Shut up, Erik. She's… weird, kind of like you. I promise." No response. Erik's mind was still racing. "I'll call you back, okay?" Isak's tone changed to more gentle, more careful. Even over the phone, he could sense Erik's sudden change in demeanor.

"I doubt it, Isak. But if it makes you feel better, talk to her again." Erik chose a standoffish tone to deflect this time. "Can't wait to hear about it," he said, coating every word with sarcasm.

"Her name's Christine." That was the last thing Erik heard before he hung up unceremoniously on his friend. That word echoed in his head for the rest of the night. Christine.


	3. One Room Disco

After being around Meg for only a few hours, it had been like they had known each other for years. Well, Christine and Meg actually had known each other for years, it was just fascinating to experience the feeling of being around someone new and someone entirely familiar at the same time. Christine still had to get used to Meg's loud voice carrying through the entire flat when it wasn't at a whisper, the way she slammed the door every time she came home from a long day of rehearsals, and her religious dedication to the reality dance competitions that broadcasted twice a week. They were small things--nothing particularly earth-shattering--just small things Christine hadn't known about Meg all these years. She wondered often if Meg felt the same way about Christine--the only thing that surprised Meg was how much Christine detested sparkling mineral water. Come to think of it, water generally was a bit on an anomaly--unless it was in a plastic bottle, Christine made a mental note to stay away from drinking all water that came from faucets and glass bottles labeled "sparkling", as from Meg's warning.

The night she arrived Christine had made a call to her mother, assuring that she was settling in just fine. The first few minutes were somewhat stilted--they both remembered how they had exchanged rather harsh words with each other prior to Christine's departure--but the longer they talked, the more Christine felt obligated to acknowledge what had happened. She hated it when her mom tried to brush disagreements or fights under the rug. Her mother had always been non-confrontational. Christine, however, was not.

"Mom, about what happened before I left, I'm so--" Christine began somewhat half-heartedly, because she knew almost exactly when Mama would interrupt, shushing her up with affection.

"Sweetie, don't worry," her mother responded. Even thousands of miles apart, Christine could clearly hear the tenderness in her voice. "It was nothing, I know we were both stressed that day, we both had a lot to worry about--"

This time Christine had to interrupt. "Yeah, Mama, but I walked out on you," she stated pointedly. "I don't know when I'm going to come back, I feel terrible--" her voice began to break, and her mother was quiet for a moment. A moment long enough to allow Christine's held-back tears to begin pouring down her flushed cheeks. "I'm sorry, Mama."

"Christine, it's fine," Mama was getting choked up, too, Christine noticed. "Stop it, we're both going to be complete messes, and I've only just had my coffee, sweetie! We all make mistakes. I'm just glad you called, that's all I wanted today."

Christine smiled weakly despite her tears. Mama loved her so much; more than Christine could ever hope to love someone else. They were all each other had for a large part of Christine's life. She gratefully accepted her mother's reprieve; even though she didn't deserve it, Christine relished in that her mother always forgave her misgivings. After only a few more minutes of talking about the flight, Meg's flat--Mama had to leave for a shift at the hospital soon--Christine's heart felt so much lighter. Well, not quite. She hadn't told her about Isak, either. For the time being, she allowed herself to think it was because she didn't want to keep Mama on the phone for any longer. Maybe she would eventually tell her, but she didn't want Mama to blow it out of proportion when it could end up leading nowhere. She would probably tell Meg soon, but would take her time filling in Mama on all of the details, Christine thought resolutely.

This morning, after having a quick breakfast with Meg, it was Christine's goal to get at least one demo tape done. The most important one, she thought to herself, as she thought about Isak's business card still sitting patiently in her coat pocket, hung up in the hallway. It was not like her to go about throwing her original work into a stranger's hands, in fact, it was almost unheard of, so this tape was particularly special. Christine was always very cautious about letting others hear her best work--she had heard far too many stories of people sharing their demo tapes and it ending up on the radio a few months later without anyone being the wiser. Perhaps it was a bad idea to let Isak hear her work, she thought at first. But after a few hours of scouring the internet, it turned out he was telling the truth: He had his own personal business profile on a social media site, and was connected to several big record labels, endorsed by a handful of now-retired music producers. Isak was truly a potential opportunity to get her foot in the door; she now had his resume to prove it. Besides, Christine thought, she had to put herself out there at some point. She couldn't hide behind remixes and mash-ups of other artists' songs forever.

She took a moment to sit up and stretch her legs, pacing across her room a few times after a few hours hunched over her laptop. One of her new favorite things was to watch traffic and pedestrians out of her window. It was like nothing she had ever seen before --well, it was like New York, but also nothing like New York at all. She marveled at people picking up fresh baguettes in the morning, the women in chic Parisian fashion that strutted down the sidewalks, and gorgeous men in leather jackets that picked them up….

Christine shook herself out of the silly daydream, and spun around to survey the room. Meg had taken great care to prepare this room for Christine's arrival, and despite Meg mentioning that fact several times over before, it was obvious how meticulously she had cleaned and tidied it up for her friend. Every other room was somewhat cluttered and messy, so Meg had obviously gone out of her way to free up this space so Christine could make it her own. It had been converted from a study, and aptly so, for a wall of half-empty bookshelves and a clean desk on the adjacent wall was perfect for Christine to store her hard drives, computer monitor, keyboards, and work on her demos, something Christine had literally been itching to do the very day she arrived in the city. Despite Meg urging her to hit the dance clubs, Christine had spent her first night in Paris setting up her equipment, and with great care because she had to make sure the universal outlet converters and cords she had purchased were set up exactly right, or else she would risk causing a short in her precious equipment. Then, for at least a few hours every day for the past week, she delved into her work, recording new clips, mixing and remastering older beats she had stashed away on her hard drives, all in preparation for her meeting with Isak.

Furthermore, every day Meg had nagged Christine to get her to go out on the town, insisting that frequenting dance clubs would help her become familiar with the local music scene, but Christine always found an excuse to get out of it--money being the main issue, unbeknownst to her friend. True, a part of Christine wanted to go out, let loose and enjoy some new music with Meg, but the idea of going out and ignoring what she came here to do somehow felt wrong. Never mind the small matter of money. Christine had mentioned needing to find a job--she'd be willing to do almost anything, at this point-- to help pay the rent. She always hated talking about money, especially with friends, but she knew it was the right thing to do, even though Meg angrily protested. 

"Christine, you realize that to be qualified for most jobs, you have to speak perfect French," Meg had also reminded her friend, her tone sounding more gentle and matter-of-fact than cruel.

"What? I speak… I mean, I'm okay," Christine tried to protest, but halfway through, she realized her French skills were not as advanced as she had initially thought upon arriving in Paris. After spending only a number of days among the natives, she knew there was much work to be done. She didn't expect to stammer so much, but once she was able to find the right words, Christine was able to get by. Most of the locals were forgiving, they knew she was an American, and Meg assured her that the vast majority of American tourists didn't even bother trying. Nonetheless, they began practicing around the apartment, and the more time she spent chatting with Meg, the more comfortable she began to feel. Moreover, Meg's uncanny ability to gossip for hours on end pushed Christine to learn. Despite her struggle to keep up at times, Christine insisted that inside the apartment, her and Meg adhere to a "French-only" rule. Besides, she needed to have a strong mastery not just to get a job, but to communicate with other musicians with ease once she established herself--hopefully that would happen sooner than later.

"I have the solution, Christine," Meg boasted one day when she came home from rehearsals. "Well, two, actually. You can't just sit here around the apartment all day." She raised an eyebrow at Christine, who blushed violently. Meg had walked in on Christine, reclined on her bed, laptop balanced on her stomach, with her headphones on, and a midi launch pad plugged into her computer, whose colorful buttons were blinking up at the two girls impatiently amidst a small pile of notebooks Christine had been scrawling in to keep track of her recordings.

"I'm working," Christine protested. It's true, she was--she wanted to polish her demo tapes before pawning them off to anyone who would listen. Most of all, she wanted her demo for Isak to be perfect--in fact, that was the one she had been working on all week. It felt so close, yet so far from complete. She had written a few new songs, and reworked some older ones from the past few years; but it still didn't feel like something she was absolutely confident in showing off to Isak yet. "I just need another day, maybe--"

"Christine," Meg cut her off rather tersely; this made Christine sit up straight on the bed. She meant business. "You're going to a dance club tonight, because you're going to convince them that you should be a resident DJ there," she said matter-of-factly. "And don't try to come up with excuses that you need to work, I know for a fact that you know how to DJ better than anyone I've ever met, and any samples you show them will convince them that you're amazing. Besides, you need to get your name out there!"

Meg wasn't wrong, and it certainly wasn't the worst idea. Christine was somewhat at a loss, nonetheless--she wanted to explain to Meg she hadn't been goofing off, it was preparation for her meeting with Isak, but--she couldn't bring herself to come clean. Maybe it was because she had a sneaking suspicion it wouldn't pan out, she finally realized. Perhaps it was the notion of getting Meg's hopes up, only to be let down and having to start from square one again. Christine liked the idea of keeping the Isak situation to herself, because she didn't put anyone at risk emotionally--that is, no one beyond herself. And Meg was right--she needed to at least attempt to show off her work to the Paris music scene. She couldn't rely solely on Isak's promises, or even the possibility of someone promising her something. This was a practical strategy, even if it meant having to tear herself away from working on demos for one evening. Christine did admit that spinning records in a dark, seedy bar wasn't the epitome of her dream job, but you always have to start somewhere, right?

"Alright, Meg, you win," Christine allowed. "We'll go out tonight. On one condition: I get to wear whatever I want." She raised an eyebrow at Meg, who opened her mouth, then closed it again, only letting a disgruntled noise escape slightly.

"Merde, Christine, just don't embarrass me, okay?"

Xxx

"Who's in charge of the music?" Christine attempted to yell in her best French to a bartender across the counter. He frowned, raising an eyebrow. Even in the dark lighting of the bar, she could tell he didn’t look particularly happy that she wasn't just screaming a drink name at him. This was the third bar this evening, and thankfully, this was the first bartender that actually bothered to oblige her.

"What, you don't like what we're playing?" He started to turn away from her, quickly nodding at some neighboring girls who were screaming for a gin and tonic. 

Christine looked behind her, throwing a helpless glance at Meg. She was beginning to think this was not a good plan--she should have gone during the day when it wasn't impossible to carry on a conversation that was longer than a few syllables and wasn't easily drowned out by the thumping bass. Nonetheless, Meg gave her an encouraging nod, mouthing, "go ahead."

She spun back around, leaning over the bar again as the bartender pushed a handful of drinks across the counter. "Er, is there a manager or owner around? I'm a DJ--I wanted to see if there was a need for--"

"You're a DJ? American?" The bartender looked her up and down, and Christine didn't know what else to do except give a quick nod, swallowing hard with anticipation while he stared her down. "Give me a second.

"THOMAS!" Christine jumped slightly as the bartender screamed over the loud, booming music to the neighboring bartender just a few feet away from him. Thomas was dressed in all black, save for a red and white trucker cap pulled backwards, dark locks poking out from underneath the brim. He was thin and gangly, with a little more than some five o'clock shadow on his face, but his eyes seemed rather kind--when he wasn't cursing out his bartender, anyway.

"What the fuck, Michel, what is it?" Thomas cursed a few more times, but the rest of the conversation Christine couldn't make out, for they had pulled together to speak privately. Michel gestured towards Christine, saying a few words, and Thomas gave her the same exact once-over that Michel did. Christine felt completely stupid, but she tried to look as confident and professional as possible, shaking her hair back and straightening her shoulders to mask her anxiety. Fake it till you make it, Christine.

After what seemed like ages, Thomas finally broke away from Michel, walking over to the counter, and releasing a latch to lift the bar counter and to get to the same side of the bar as Christine. He leaned over to her, moving his lips close to her ear. "So you have a demo? Like, stuff you can show us?"

Christine glanced up at Thomas, who was over a head taller than her, she just realized. He looked at her expectantly, and after a moment or two, she registered his question. "Yes, yes, hang on--" she reached into her bag, rummaging around for her USB stick-- "I have a demo with some mixes. No original songs, but my own mixes from, like, pop music," she sputtered, as she focused on withdrawing the thumb drive to hand over to Thomas. He accepted Christine's gift, and looked her in the eyes with a small smile. 

"I can't promise anything because we have artists that come in regularly for the most part," he explained earnestly. "If we need anyone to fill in, we can call you." Thomas lifted the thumb drive, shaking it a bit before asking, "Is your contact information on here? E-mail? Phone?"

Christine nodded vigorously. "Yes. Call me anytime, if you need a--a substitute, I guess," she wasn't sure if she had used the right word, and she chuckled in spite of herself.

Thomas laughed too, leaning in to Christine again. "Don't worry, we will. Don't take this the wrong way, but we really like the idea of a girl DJ. It's, like--unexpected, you know?" He shrugged a little.

"Oh, I suppose it is, yes," Christine allowed. "If being a girl helps me get the job, then--all the better, so thank you," she said honestly, even though she was still slightly taken aback at the fact he felt the need to single her out for her gender so blatantly. What does it matter, anyway?

"Hey, listen--we need more girls in here tonight anyway, so let me get Michel to give some drinks for you and, ah-- your friend?" Thomas gestured to Meg. Meg had been patiently waiting behind her friend, but had been silently taking in every word between Christine and Thomas. She nodded, flashing a winning smile at Thomas. 

Christine gave a more sheepish smile. "That'd be great, thank you, Thomas."

"Wait, your name is--?" Thomas looked at her, giving a sly smile as he reached out his hand.

"Christine," she said, taking Thomas's hand in the firmest handshake she knew how. The crooked way Thomas smiled made her heart leap a little, but she didn't let it show in the slightest. "Nice to meet you. Hopefully I'll be back sooner than later."

"Of course," he allowed. He excused himself, and made a beeline for Michel behind the bar.

Christine wheeled around to face Meg, giving a big sigh of relief. "Finally," she exclaimed to Meg. "I was beginning to think this was a lost cause."

Meg responded with a squeeze of her hand. "I knew you were going to get someone's attention," she said proudly. She glanced over at the bar before she spoke again. "Okay, but Thomas is so cute," she purred into Christine's ear. "Did you see the way he looked at you? I mean, he's going to buy us drinks. He's so into you."

Christine laughed nervously. "I suppose he is, but--I may have to work for him someday, so that would be, um, a conflict of interest, I think." 

Meg stomped a foot, gasping in exasperation. "Christine, you really need to just let go. You overthink things too much, that's your problem," she exclaimed. "For now, let's celebrate a possible job offer, and forget about the rest of the world tonight, okay?"

Xxx

After flagging down Michel to pour the girls a drink of their choice, Thomas had retreated to the back of the bar and towards the office, mainly to put aside Christine's thumb drive in a safe place. It wasn't too late, but the crowd was just beginning to ramp up; maybe before things got too crazy he could see if any of her music was worthwhile--

He began to open the door to the tiny, cramped office, when he noticed someone coming in through the back door from his peripheral vision. Only a handful of people had a key to that door, and as far as he knew, the whole staff was already clocked in, buckling down for what they expected to be the usual busy Saturday night. A lone figure emerged from the back entrance, with a large hooded sweatshirt pulled up, obscuring most of their face--

Before Thomas could even formulate a greeting once he'd realized who he was looking at, the hooded figure had already darted over--right next to Thomas, he towered over the bar manager, and had to bend down a bit before speaking. Thomas could recognize the pair of thin, slightly misshapen lips anywhere as he saw them form his name.

"Thomas." 

"E-Erik," he stammered back. "The system's all set up, man, so, er-- feel free to start-- whenever." Even after all these years, Thomas didn't quite know how to act around him. They weren't really friends, but they had known each other long enough to where it felt a bit awkward, not knowing much about Erik at all. Granted, Erik never bothered to ask much about Thomas's personal life, and maybe that was for the better. Maybe Erik didn't speak freely about himself very much for a reason, and Thomas had a fair amount of theories--most were not very respectable, either. Even though he was a bit of a character, Thomas had to admit that Erik was one of the best--no, the best DJ he had seen around Paris nightlife in the past decade. It was for this sole reason he let Erik come and go as he please--sometimes he wouldn't see him at the club for weeks on end; some months, he would be there every single night, day after day, even nights where the number of patrons was at a bare minimum. Lately, Erik had been on a fairly predictable schedule, dropping by for a set every couple of weeks, with a preference for weekends. Thomas figured as much, since it was easier for Erik test out his mixes on a larger audience to see their response.

Erik nodded quickly, gesturing to the door leading to the office. "May I?" 

Thomas returned his question with a quick smile, following Erik into the room, with a welcomed sense of familiarity. He closed the door behind them, and Erik produced a handful of items underneath his coat--his own pair of headphones, large and white, with a matching pair of sunglasses and mask that only covered his face from the cheekbones downward. He carefully started to put them on, mask first, followed by the glasses, then placing his headphones gingerly around his neck.

"Oh, cool," Thomas remarked with an earnest appreciation. "I like the theme tonight. Is that supposed to be a mask for motorcyclists? Interesting." His feeble attempt at small talk fell on deaf ears. But even after Erik had put on his entire getup, Thomas still stood there patiently, looking over at him expectantly. Silently, Erik pulled out a final item from his sweatshirt--a wad of crisp euros, neatly stacked and tied together. Without hesitation, he handed it over to Thomas, who quickly moved to accept.

"You know, if your music wasn't so damned good, I wouldn't be putting up with your shit," Thomas commented casually as he walked over to his desk, as his final attempt to make light conversation. He threw out the thumb drive from his pants pocket onto his desk, carefully replacing it with the cash. "But you're good to me, Erik. You bring in girls who like to dance, and tipping customers to boot--"

"I'll be a few hours tonight." Erik interrupted; voice slightly muffled from his mask, but still sharp enough to cut through Thomas's rambling. Through his dark glasses, Erik's gaze briefly rested on the desk, eyeing the small USB drive that was carelessly tossed out onto a pile of old receipts and invoices before glancing back up to Thomas's eye line. "What do you say?"

Thomas sighed, placing his arms behind his back as he recited his spiel for what felt like the hundredth time: "I don't know who you are, I don't know what you look like, and as far as I know, you don't even exist when you walk out of here."

Erik gave another nod, and Thomas turned on his heel to lead Erik back out into the club. In all of a few seconds, Thomas walked out the door, and Erik waited up for a fraction of a second, hanging back in the office. In a flash, Erik swiped the drive, scooping it out from the pile of papers as quickly and silently as possible, pocketing it carefully in one of his pants pockets. He swiftly caught up to Thomas to shut the door behind them, with Thomas blissfully unaware of what had just happened.

Erik never really had a plan for when he got up on stage, that was part of the reason why he liked visiting this night club every so often. The owner was trustworthy, and he more or less allowed Erik to have free reign from a musical standpoint. He recalled Thomas saying during one of their first meetings: "As long as it's something people can dance or drink to, it'll be fine." Thomas initially seemed to be under the impression that Erik was some impresario wishing to indulge in some DJ fantasy considering the amount of cash he had piled on just to play a set, but he was happily proved wrong after hearing Erik spin some remixes that first night he performed. In fact, he was amazed: Erik was talented. Night after night, Thomas was constantly surprised-- not just by the sheer talent, but by the versatility. How he could both match the mood of the room but also command it with a driving bass line.

They had both given each other a nod good-bye since Thomas was used to Erik disappearing into thin air after his set ended. In all of a couple of minutes, the automatic playlist had faded into something entirely different.

This wasn't the ideal situation, Erik thought to himself--this was by no means the perfect venue when taking acoustics or visuals into account, but considering what he had been dealt, he was somewhat proud of all the work he had put into it. In fact, he was even a little attached. Over the years he convinced Thomas to install a new sound system, complete with a synchronized lighting system, and a built-in mixing station that was cordoned off on the far side of the dance floor, where Erik would be stationed the whole night, there for everyone to see, but far enough away so that no one would attempt to approach him. He learned that the hard way after initially working in an open station, and dealing with drunk twenty-somethings screaming at him to play their favorite song from the radio the first few nights. After several rounds of trial and error, this was now something he genuinely liked doing. It was the best of both worlds: seeing real-time responses to his work while staying anonymous and, for the most part, unseen, staying in the back of the club and crouching behind his equipment. A theatrical disguise never hurt now and again, either, especially if an overly curious patron decided to investigate the man behind the music.

The dance floor was relatively empty before Erik's set began; only a couple of souls were brave enough to try and dance while the rest were littered around the perimeter, clumped together in groups, drinks in hand, and bobbing heads only somewhat enthusiastically. It was a combination of sobriety and a boring playlist, Erik thought as he transitioned to a more energetic track. It wasn't his own material--in fact, he hardly ever played any purely original tracks--but he liked to tweak and revamp older songs, taking recognizable hits from the past few decades and peppering in a combination of underground electro-house artists as well as snippets of his own arrangements. It was a little bit of everything he liked, with the pleasant sound of familiar pop tracks in the forefront to keep the audience happy.

It wasn't even five minutes before the dance floor started to flood with bodies. The energy was starting to feel more and more palpable, and he fed off it, using his headphones to queue up the next track and manually mixing in specific sounds and beats from his preprogrammed drum machine. It was far more complex than just pressing a button and coasting through track after track, yes, but mixing everything live paid off so much more--

Looking up at his audience, feeling the bass pump through his body as it began to match his heartbeat--this is what he lived for. It was electric.

Then, he saw something up near the back of the dance floor, over by the bar counter.

Two girls. A short, petite blonde was pulling the taller, darker-haired girl towards the door. The blonde was obviously impatient to leave, but the dark-haired girl kept gesturing over towards Erik. Her back was turned, but by her body language, she didn't want to leave quite so soon as her friend.

Erik chuckled a little. He saw this as something of an opportunity--no, a challenge. After a couple of keystrokes, he added a new song to his queue. Something with Japanese characters in the title--it was something brand-new. Something he had been waiting to try out this week.

The track transitioned seamlessly, and people began to shout and whoop, raising their drinks in appreciation. This one drove the bass into your ears, deep into your head. It was infectious. No one in the crowd could resist moving to the beat.

After a few moments, the brunette resolutely turned her head and darted to the dance floor. The blonde friend stomped her foot, but nonetheless followed, determined not to lose her in the crowd of dancing bodies. The head of brown--or was it black?-- hair got closer and closer towards Erik's station, but only got as far as a couple of yards away from his sound set-up, for people were crowding around the speakers as if they needed to physically feel the bass up against themselves.

She turned her head up, craning her neck to get a glimpse of him, when they both locked eyes from over his laptop. 

How long did she hold his gaze? Maybe just mere seconds, but it felt like it could have gone on for hours. Her bright eyes stayed fixed onto him, unblinking and wide. Even with his glasses and bottom-half mask, Erik had never felt more exposed under another person's stare--let alone that of a young woman. 

She was breathtaking and utterly frightening at the same time.


	4. Helix

Though she was still tapping away at her laptop furiously, Christine felt ready to give up. She couldn't find anything about this DJ she had seen last night. She tried terms in the search engine like "masked DJ," "French DJ," but they were far too vague to provide any real clues as to the identity of this particular performer.

Even though she couldn't see his face--veiled by the motorcycle mask and dark sunglasses--his visage was burned into her memory. When Christine finally slid into bed after arriving home, quite literally as the sun was beginning to rise--she could still feel his gaze. She still felt the pounding bass echoing in her eardrums. Chiding herself silently, Christine had suddenly wished she had recorded parts of the set--she tried to replay the set in her head as she stared up at her bedroom ceiling. Christine felt a slightly sinking feeling, for she was afraid the next morning would cloud her now crystal-clear memory of the set--every song, every transition, every backbeat--she was afraid to forget.

The set last night was like nothing Christine had ever heard. She couldn't tear away her gaze from the DJ for the entire set--how long was it, anyway? An hour? Maybe two? It was impossible to resist watching him playing and mixing the songs in real-time, his spindly fingers flying deftly over his keyboard. She still had a slight crick in her neck from having to strain over the crowd and sound equipment just to get a glimpse of the hooded figure. 

When the beat first dropped--Christine's breath caught in her chest, taking her completely off guard. It was everything she realized she wanted--but she had no idea that she wanted any of these things until the very second she heard it. It felt like home but it was also full of exhilarating new twists and turns, sending Christine into a euphoric wonder as she journeyed through the set with the audience. The artist's unique style of synthesizer modulation paired with the clever samples, effortlessly dropping in backbeats and splices of choruses into a medley of a continuous mix-- every single nuance was so beautifully and carefully pieced together, but it still played effortlessly to the crowd. Even to the untrained ear, it was a hit: the crowd was infected by the DJ's beats. They couldn't help but bob their heads enthusiastically, ask their friends to dance, or even convince a stranger at the bar to join. Some were obviously regulars, who recognized some of these mixes--Christine could see a handful of patrons clumped around the bar, talking excitedly and gesturing towards the DJ, giving the occasional whistle or shout of approval as with a particularly intriguing beat drop or deft synthesizer riff. All the while, however, the DJ made sure his face stayed covered--he never removed so much as his sunglasses, let alone his hood. The hood seemed a bit superfluous, Christine thought to herself, considering his head was hunched downwards for almost the entire set. That fact, combined with his complicated set-up, Christine realized that some people who had had enough drinks might have just assumed that it was an automated stereo system with a 2-hour playlist queued up. But Christine knew: a simple playlist could never accomplish anything like this.

Finally, after well over an hour of taking in his lush mixes, Christine decided to get to work on finding out the name of the artist. She had first decided to ask a small group of clubbers close by who were her age, even the bartender Michel, but no one could say definitively. The only indication was from a man in a who seemed to frequent the nightclub often, more often than not to see this mysterious DJ. He was one of the patrons who had gathered over by the far end of the bar, quietly sipping a glass of dark-colored liquor while he occasionally bobbed his head and whooped politely.

"I see him around all the time, but he doesn't really have a name," a Frenchman had shouted to Christine over the thumping bass. "He's like Banksy, you know? He always changes his disguises, but his style, the way he plays--you know it has to be the same guy," he had insisted.

"How long has he been around?" Christine pressed him for more information as best as she could. The Frenchman was obviously a couple of drinks in; he occasionally slurred his words and swigged from a tall glass of a drink that smelled suspiciously of whiskey, but that didn't deter her.

"Oh, awhile," he said, thinking for a moment, taking another sip of his drink. "Probably--four or five years. At least, that's what we've been guessing."

"Sorry--what do you mean by 'we'?" She had leaned closer, letting the whiskey on his breath fill her nostrils.

"A few people, along with myself, have been following him for some time now," he responded. "We have a Twitter account so we can post whenever he's spotted playing. He always shows up unannounced, so we figured we make a way to let all the fans know when he shows up at a given club around town." Reaching around for his phone, he pulled it out, tapping a few times on the touch screen to pull up an account called LeFantomeDJ. The banner showed a blurry photo of the mysterious DJ - almost a silhouette since the photo was blown out by the neon video display behind the DJ's set up, but Christine could make out his large white headphones, the same kind he had been wearing that very evening.

"It's not a perfect system; we sometimes miss his sets if he decides to play at a random bar at, like, three in the morning," he explained. "But we have about ten or so people managing the account, so there's a pretty wide net cast for the most part. We affectionately call him--The Phantom," he said, chuckling a bit in spite of himself.

After thanking him, and asking Michel to pour him a drink on her for his time, Christine wandered off to find Meg, while at the same time pulling out her phone and tapping away to find the twitter handle for the DJ's--The Phantom's--following. It was all real-time posts announcing that they had located the Phantom, usually at this bar: "LE FANTÔME est apparu - Le Cavern, 21 rue Dauphine," but occasionally other surrounding clubs and dance halls, presumably for keeping the element of surprise. She had immediately hit the 'Follow' button, and additionally turned on notifications for the account, so that she would receive a real-time notification as soon as a tweet was published.

Christine had slowed to a stop, tapping away on her phone, and after a few moments, Meg ran up to her, and immediately got to dragging Christine towards the front door as she berated her friend for making her so worried-- she had no idea where Christine had gotten to.

"What did you think of the DJ, though?" Christine couldn't help but ask after she muttered a sheepish apology. 

Meg had just shrugged. "It was pretty good, for someone just remixing a bunch of old stuff together." But, after flicking her hair behind her neck to show off her sparkling chandelier earrings, she had added, "I prefer live music better."

"Well, it technically was live," Christine had said pointedly. "Besides the tracks he had in his sampler, all the additional mixing, the drum beats, the synth--that was live."

"I guess that's cool. Maybe I couldn't properly enjoy it because I was so worried about losing my best friend since this was her first night out!" 

She had tossed and turned for quite some time before falling asleep, but after only a few hours, Christine was struck with inspiration after hearing The Phantom, sitting bolt upright to start mixing on her laptop. She had been working nonstop all morning, pushing herself to finish this demo for Isak.

It was well past noon now, and Christine pushed her laptop to the side, walking over to her dresser where her phone was charging. She held it in her hands for a moment, gazing out the window while she deliberated. If Isak was really as involved music industry like he had led on during their conversation on the plane, it's entirely possible he could have known--or at the very least, heard of--this Phantom, despite him being out of the business for quite some time. She wanted so badly to call him and ask him, but that wasn't her priority. She needed to have a meeting with Isak to talk about her work. Christine had had several days to put together a demo, and even though it wasn't entirely perfect, she wanted to give herself a deadline to work towards. If they scheduled a meeting for a couple of days out, then that would be enough time to get her music just right, she surmised. Besides, she didn't want to wait around for Isak to call her--she wanted to show initiative; she wanted to show that she really wanted this. At the same time, it had already been several days since they'd met, and she thought that was an appropriate amount of time to wait so that she didn't come across as annoying or desperate.

Then, with a couple of taps on the touchscreen, she was calling Isak's mobile.

After three agonizing rings, the line connected. "Allô?" The unmistakably warm tenor voice filled Christine's ear.

X

Bluetooth headphones were glowing blue, emitting a soft, blinking light from the center of each earphone. But, unusually, they were the only things that were lighting up in Erik's apartment this evening. His equipment was left untouched. Not turned off, though--it was always left idling, the hard drive humming softly just on the off chance its owner was struck with a sudden inspiration.

The mix he was playing back was all he had been listening to for the past few days. Sometimes, he would play back a specific song. The specific moment, right when the beat dropped. He relished every single beat, every single cadence--it was the song he had been playing when--

His skin prickled to form gooseflesh, but in spite of that, his blood ran hot, pumping quickly through his body. Erik couldn't remember the last time an auditory cue like this made his blood literally boil. Yes, he enjoyed music, and yes, he enjoyed making it even more, but the past few years, he was beginning to feel listless--even bored at times. Popular music during the past decade had slowly become more repetitive, more manufactured, more auto-tuned. It became old songs remixed into new hits, a simple chord progression, one sickeningly catchy beat after another. Erik could spit out a top forty Billboard hit in his sleep, make a quick buck once he sent it over to Isak, who could hock it to a record label--but what was the fun in that anymore? Everything about the industry was infuriating to him: the thought that anyone with a pretty face, charisma, and an army of PR and management professionals could become what everyone called a "superstar" these days--it made him physically nauseous. He couldn't even listen to the radio anymore.

But Erik constantly craved new music--that is, music he liked. Something that lit the fire; something that inspired him in in new, exciting, almost shocking ways. He liked to be surprised. In order to satiate this desire, Erik had begun to look more on the underbelly of the music industry, skulking around nightclubs all across Paris. What he found was so far displaced from the mainstream idea of popular music-- the underground scene. He stumbled upon nameless artists experimenting with old analog equipment, vocoders and synthesizers, hooked up to more modern turntables and switchboard set-ups--they marched to their own drum, quite literally, their own backbeat. Synth punk, electro house, synth pop, industrial dance, nu goth--it didn't matter what genre; Erik wanted to hear everything and anything that was going on in these clubs. It wasn't just the music either--the atmosphere always intrigued him. He didn't have to worry about anyone staring at him, wearing strange disguises, he could easily stake out a spot in the back of the bar and watch the whole scene unfold from afar. It was the best of both world for him, that is, someone who wished to stay as anonymous as possible. He loved the live experience, but was still able to minimize his social interaction.

Erik had slowly begun to realize during the new millennium--these nightclubs were where the real innovation was happening. Kids were figuring out how to dub records onto tapes, overlay drum beats, eventually creating their own unique sounds by splicing together a symphony of different sounds only to create a whole piece that was entirely new--their own, fresh tracks. Then, the advent of the digital era put everything into hyper drive--literally. It allowed anyone with a computer and basic mixing software to create almost any sound one's heart desired. Erik remembered ordering a personal laptop computer so many years back, thinking it was going to be nothing more than a lost cause, but with a bit of patience and determination, he found out it was quite intuitive. Recording tracks, modifying levels to his satisfaction, then layering each individual track over-- it was addicting, really. He relished in both the creative liberties and the technical challenges behind this new electronic frontier.

The more he learned, the more Erik realized the vast amount of possibilities he had at his fingertips. With enough equipment, he could create all but an orchestral symphony. Because of his classical background, he found himself gravitating towards his keyboard. He was so used to the feel of his fingers on the black and white keys--something about it was so natural, it was almost like an extension of his own person. So, he took advantage of that, and made different keyboard mappings of varying sounds - he now had literally hundreds of different keyboard settings programmed into his hard drive. From futuristic synthesizers, to drum beats, to different types of rhythm guitars--Erik had spent the past fifteen years perfecting his catalog of sounds to choose from. It was almost complete, too, he thought to himself. All except--

Erik felt his phone suddenly vibrate in his pocket, but he didn't bother to pull it out. Instead, he ripped off his headphones, cast them aside next to his computer, and proceeded to make his way to the front of his flat--striding down the hall from his bedroom into the front foyer. Unceremoniously wrenching the door open, he waved in his guest, and shut the door as soon as Isak's last heel had traveled across the threshold.

"Did you bring it?" Erik muttered at Isak, his eyes traveling up and down his friend's silhouette.

"Hello to you, too," Isak responded, shooting Erik a pointed look before quietly obliging. He reached into the inside pocket of his sport coat, pulling out a jewel CD case. He had barely gotten it out of his pocket before Erik had already snatched the case out of his hands.

"I honestly can't remember the last time I went out and picked up an actual CD," Isak mused to himself as he followed Erik down the hallway. "You really couldn't find this catalogued in the vast chasm of the Internet, Erik?"

Erik only shook his head in response as he strode through the set of double doors on the far right end of the hallway. "Trust me, I've been looking for several months, and… nothing." Now that he was back to his workstation, he turned to the nearby hard drive tower, pried open the jewel case and placed the nondescript-looking compact disc into the reader. "At least I can digitize it for my own collection now, perhaps use it as a bartering tool for any future trades."

"Mm, whatever gets you ahead, I suppose," Isak allowed, trailing off as he watched Erik get to work. After a couple clicks of his mouse--minimizing the program he had been working in prior to Isak's entrance, and opening up a CD ripping program--Erik had completely forgotten that someone else was in the room. If it were anyone else, Isak thought, Erik would be--on edge, to say the least. In fact, he probably wouldn't allow another person in if they weren't Isak--he was so protective of his work, not because he didn't want anyone to hear his songs, but because he never wanted anyone hearing anything that was still a work in progress. Erik was always so sure of his work--not once in their relationship had he ever asked Isak for feedback. The only questions Erik asked him were things like whether he preferred a hard copy or an electronic file of the finished work. Sometimes, he wouldn't even have the luxury of deciding, sometimes Erik would send both, or just a CD, or sometimes just a vinyl, complete with a long-winded, haughty explanation as to why the track was meant for that specific medium.

And then there was--Erik, Isak thought to himself. In all the time Erik had owned this flat in central Paris, Isak had probably been the only visitor, save for the occasional delivery man that demanded a signature for a more expensive parcel. Erik always talked about how important his music was, how he needed to always be working--but Isak knew it was more than that. Even when Isak showed up unannounced, his friend was wearing a disguise. Nowadays, Isak didn't think about it much since he was so used to it, but every now and then he couldn't help but feel the smallest twinge of pity-- even though Erik's eyes were flashing brightly, glittering as they scanned across the room, across Isak's face--it was only Erik's eyes and mouth Isak only ever saw. Sometimes less. Today, Erik's disguise was similar to last night's, except today, he only wore the lower half-mask with a matching, slate-grey knitted beanie. Isak had stopped trying to cajole Erik into foregoing the mask when they were alone in the loft together. Sometimes, Isak suspected, Erik still covered his face, even if he wasn't expecting any visitors--even if he was going to be alone for days on end.

After several moments of silence--save for the intermittent sounds of Erik's long fingers tapping they keyboard, clicking and shifting the mouse to and fro-- Isak finally caught a lull in his friend's silent stream of consciousness to get his attention.

"You said you had something to show me, Erik." This time, there was complete silence. No clicking. No tapping. Isak could only see the back of his head, dark hair faintly reflecting the computer's white-blue glow.

"Something that doesn't belong to you."

"For the record, it belonged to Thomas, and by association, I should have free reign over whatever is passed on to him."

"Thomas? Oh, right, because you've unofficially become the resident musician at The Cavern," Isak reminded himself. "And since when are you afraid of a little competition, Erik?" This was what piqued Isak's interest the most--what could be so captivating to Erik's particular--almost downright picky--taste in music? Perhaps it was something so farcical, Erik wanted to have a laugh, Isak briefly thought--but, then again, Erik was hardly ever the joking type, especially when it came to music.

"Have there been any new artists around? Anyone new you've heard of that's started to circulate the underground scene?"

"Honestly, Erik, I don't stay on top of those things like you do. Usually, if there is someone new, it's someone that's causing a big buzz."

"That's what's bothering me most about him, Isak. It's not just a good mixtape. This person… they're completely unknown. I mean, he has a Soundcloud, but there's nothing beyond a handful of tracks similar to what he gave to Thomas on the thumb drive."

"Hang on--what's his name?" 

"Morgon. Ring a bell?"

Morgon. Isak said it out loud before taking another moment to think. It wasn't a particularly memorable name--normally EDM artists chose a combination of colorful nouns and adjectives. "It's such a common name, and yet--I can't say I've heard of any underground artist around here named Morgon."

Isak realized he was staring at his feet, because suddenly a piece of plastic was being brandished underneath his nose. It was Erik's Bluetooth headphones, which Isak quietly accepted, covering his ears with them completely. The noise-cancelling feature was turned on because every ambient sound in the room suddenly came to a deafening stillness. In less than a couple of seconds, Erik had started the beginning of the mixtape.

Morgon really was good.

The first five or so minutes consisted of carefully picked, upbeat dance tracks, and then it began to get experimental, delving deeper into the bass lines that had initially been in the background of the dance mixes. Normally, Isak would turn off the demo after such a long stream of playlists, but the transitions were seamless. Whoever this Morgon was obviously paid close attention to the chord progressions and key changes in each song, making four separate tracks into one cohesive, flowing electrohouse medley.

He closed his eyes, only half-aware of the fact that Erik was still in the room, his intense stare boring into Isak all the while. He felt warm, light--even though Isak wasn't much of a dancer, he found himself resisting the urge to sway his body to the pulse of the backbeat. He suddenly found himself back in the south of France, sunbathing next to a beautiful, raven-haired woman, smiling and laughing, her olive skin crinkling to make wrinkles around her eyes-- and Isak felt like he was home. The sunlight and the soft sand, the smell of the warm, salty sea overtook his senses, filling him with of calm and serenity--something he hadn't truly experienced in a long time. Perhaps this was an echo of something that had happened in a dream, Isak began to wonder. He couldn't help but second guess himself--that really happen, or was it the sheer clarity of emotion Isak could feel from the music? Was it a beautiful fantasy, or a bittersweet memory from years past--?

Ten minutes had passed, previously unbeknownst to Isak, because Erik had to practically pry the headphones off of his ears and inform him of that fact. Erik had already dumped the headphones back onto his desk, but Isak was still reeling, trying to find the words to describe what he had just heard.

"Erik, how… ? How can a mix sound so familiar, and so--?"

"I know." Erik sat back down in his chair, this time gazing at the space between the two of them, losing himself in thought momentarily. Several moments of silence passed between them, and then Erik's green eyes darted up to Isak.

"I think I'd like to have Thomas hire him for an evening. See what he can really do." He spun his chair back towards the glowing screen as he continued to explain. "Performing live is the true test--pre-recording will only get you so far. A hundred takes isn't the same thing as one lone, continuous expanse to mix your sounds on. Besides, most audiences are ruthless. It's quite simple, really: Either they love it, or they hate it."

"Call Thomas."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!! Thanks so much for reading my wacky idea of a fic. I'm going to start working on compiling a Spotify playlist for you guys to listen to while you read along, because there are a ton of EDM artists that have been inspiring me to write this. Also, I apologize for the irregular updates; I'm currently at university and that takes up aboouuut 99% of my time. But, now that National Writing Month is under way, I'm going to try to have at least one more chapter for you guys this month!
> 
> Stay tuned, leave some comments, kudos, let me know what you think! I'm also on Tumblr, (phantomgaga), and I'm super active on there, so if you feel like picking my brain about something Phantom or Neon Twilight related, feel free! Enjoy! :)


	5. Zephyr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a really tough time writing this chapter, and honestly I still don't know if I'm fully satisfied with it. I am truly sorry to make you all wait for so long, but to make up for it, this chapter is EXTRA long!! (Hopefully not... too long, heh.)
> 
> And before we get into it, I want to give you another extra gift!! A very, VERY comprehensive playlist that has been inspiring me to write this story. You may notice that a lot (okay, maybe all) of my chapter titles are songs from this playlist. 
> 
> Check it out on Spotify:  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/12500011/playlist/6J8kO71NJM4VnHFPsLIY05
> 
> Some of the songs aren't available to stream on Spotify unfortunately, so if you want the full playlist, I would recommend looking up the songs that are greyed out on YouTube. (The title of this fic is actually inspired by a song that is not available on Spotify, but I added it to the playlist anyway just for completion's sake...) 
> 
> Anyway, enough of my rambling. Set up the playlist if you can, grab a snack and enjoy the chapter!

Erik's eyes had been trailing lazily across the various passerby, slightly perking up every time someone approached the host of the restaurant. After quite some time--perhaps nearly an hour, he thought to himself absentmindedly--a young woman approached the host, on her own, with no partner or family in sight. When she spoke to the host in her soft voice mentioning a table for two, Erik's mind began to race. Though soft, her voice was as clear and pure as a silver bell. Her lips curved upwards in a polite smile, but her body language read otherwise--he could tell she was nervous. She followed the host to a table, sitting down so that Erik had a view of her right profile. It then hit him suddenly like a bolt of lightning: Erik had seen her before. But how did he recognize her? He tried to conjure the faint memory, wishing it would flicker before his eyes, but…nothing, much to his dismay. Erik blamed it on the stress of being out in public--he was so alert and aware of his surroundings, aware of every movement, every small clank of silverware on a plate that echoed throughout the restaurant-- it made any other mental task somewhat demanding. Maybe if she took her sunglasses off, he thought to himself. In spite how irritatingly familiar she may have looked to him, he had an inkling of who she could be. While Erik had no proof of knowing for sure if this was the girl, deep down, he knew it was unmistakably her--the girl that was to meet with Isak.

And she was beautiful.

Stomach lurching, heart racing--Erik's mouth grew dry, and he exhaled rather gustily, perhaps the in hopes of assuaging his sudden bout of anxiety upon the sight of what could very well be his new musical collaborator. _Why did she have to be so beautiful?_ Erik thought to himself helplessly. Was Isak… mocking him? Bringing this fresh-faced, young thing into his friend's midst? While he had a brief moment of anger and resentment towards his longtime friend, he knew it was unfounded, just for that reason: Isak knew Erik only too well. In fact, Isak knew Erik better than perhaps any other human being.

Besides, it was rather hypocritical of him, he thought, chiding himself inwardly. Before even laying eyes on her, Erik would be lying if he didn't admit that he had…fantasized about what she would look like. While they were ever dormant, Erik still had his very male, primal instincts--desiring a partner with a symmetrical face, an ample bosom, full-figured but not unhealthily so--it was science. Erik was very much aware of this, but nevertheless, he secretly hated himself for even having these desires. He knew his appearance would never allow for the fulfillment of these yearnings. 

She was smaller than he had anticipated. Perhaps it was only because she was not teetering around on stilettos like most women did in the city, but even despite her height, she seemed swallowed up in her oversized black parka. Her hair was straight, dark, raven-haired… perhaps too dark and too straight, he thought.  So few people naturally had jet-black hair, let alone jet-black hair that managed to be smooth, straight, and bouncy all at once. Her hair was obviously dyed and straightened, and Erik couldn't help but wonder what color her hair was naturally…

She reminded him so much like the girls he'd always dreamed about, he thought idly. But he stopped himself, balling up a fist under the table. Wanting a thing he could never have-- _Don't be so pathetic, Erik,_ he said to himself grimly.

There was no reason Erik should be angry at her, the poor girl. He was unmoving in his hiding spot, remaining tucked away in a dimly lit corner as he watched her fidget slightly in her seat, playing with her hair as she waited for her lunch date. The girl couldn't help that she was so beautiful--damn, _why_ was she so beautiful? Every small movement captivated him, leaving him wanting more--leaving him breathless. After several minutes, Isak arrived, and sure enough:  Her calm, stoic visage broke out into a wonderful, glowing smile, getting up to greet Erik's friend, giving him a small peck on the cheek. Erik felt something gnaw in the pit of his stomach--was it jealousy?

 _So it was her. Christine_. It was quite an angelic name, he had thought upon initially learning it. Perhaps that was why the image of a pure, white, figure with sparkling blue eyes flickered in his mind when Isak had uttered her name over the phone for the first time. But neither pure nor white were the words that Erik would necessarily use to describe this young  woman. What Erik couldn't quite get over were her body modifications. He first saw the nose piercing, a small silver ring that entered through her nasal septum, creating a subtle yet unique statement piece that glinted slightly whenever she tossed her hair back. Isak had complimented the piercing right when they sat down to lunch, and even though she looked shocked that he would pay such a compliment, she received it graciously, thanking him again to meet him on such short notice. Erik took a fairly logical guess in that she hadn't worn her nose piercing on the plane, so it was just as new for Isak as it was for him. She also had small gauges in her ears; tiny black plugs were feebly attempting to stretch out the bottoms of her earlobes. Finally--perhaps he was imagining things--every now and again, as Christine used her hands to gesture along with her dialogue, he could see black, inked lines poking out from underneath the baggy sleeves of her parka--perhaps it was a tattoo, Erik thought. Christine's appearance was pleasantly surprising: for someone so young, it seemed she had a very clear idea of her image. It suited her, and Erik couldn't help but resist a small smile, the corners of his mouth twitching as he surveyed this foreign, yet all too familiar figure. 

Did Christine look so familiar simply because her face was the closest thing that resembled his fantasies? It still continued to gnaw at the back of his mind. 

Erik had guessed correctly about one thing, though: her eyes. Though a dark, black kohl eyeliner had been smudged and carefully smoked out around her lids, nothing could mask her bright, shimmering blue-grey eyes. Her eyelashes were voluminous and dark--perhaps coated with a thick layer of mascara. They often veiled her eyes when her gaze moved downwards, but nonetheless--the eyes were what captivated him. He couldn't look away.

x

"Living here is … unbelievable," she admitted. "It's new--a bit alarming how new it all is for me--but at the same time--I think that's what continues to draw me to go out, take walks, visit new sightseeing places that my roommate hasn't already told me about," she said brightly.

"Oh, a roommate? I had assumed you were living on your own since you hadn't mentioned that. That's quite nice, I would hope. To have someone around--to help you adjust to living in a new city."

"A new country, more like!" Christine corrected Isak. "I can't even wrap my head around it, even after being here for almost 2 weeks now--being overseas, being on a whole different part of the planet--it's mindboggling." She sat back in her seat a little, looking nonplussed--as if the sight of the Paris streets before her still didn't seem entirely real.

"Well, besides that… how have you been adjusting? Hopefully it's not too much of a culture shock."

Christine was quiet for a moment, only smiling serenely at first. She turned her gaze to the passerby on the street, scanning over one person after another, a group of friends here, an old couple over there, a woman pushing a stroller on the opposite side of the street…. When Christine had arrived at the restaurant they had agreed to meet, she'd arrived quite early, not just to calm her nerves, but to dine al fresco. Despite the nip in the air, the sun was out today, and she thought it made for wonderful outdoor dining weather. She had specifically asked the host for outdoor seating--not just for a bit of fresh air, but because people watching had become one of her favorite pastimes since moving to Paris. The sight of random strangers, each with their own worries, hopes, ambitions--it put things into perspective for Christine. Some days, it was only too easy for her to get wrapped up in her own thoughts and anxieties, especially on days like today--a day that could very well be a turning point in her career. Watching everyone pass by her, making up little stories in her head about each person--it was oddly calming. It reminded her that, while achieving her goals were important, the world will keep turning, no matter what the day may bring her.

She laughed a little to herself before responding to Isak. "I'd be lying if I said there weren't a few--differences that took me by surprise. I can't believe how many people chain smoke here!" She exclaimed earnestly, gesturing towards two teenagers puffing away upwind of Christine and Isak's table. "There aren't nearly as many smokers in New York City. Even if there is the occasional smoker, they're usually a lot more polite about it," she said as she wrinkled her nose in the direction of the teens.

Isak couldn't help but laugh in spite of Christine's perturbed expression. "You're absolutely right-- I've lived here for so long sometimes I tend to forget just how much secondhand smoke I'm inhaling whenever I have to step out of a restaurant to take a call," he mused, half to Christine, half to himself.

"So you're not originally from here." It wasn't a question.

"No, I was actually raised in Iran, but I've been here… oh, for about a decade now. My, has it really been that long?" Isak's dark brown eyes, normally sharp and present, started to stare off into the distance. Christine let his question hang in the air until she decided the silence was too uncomfortable. She fidgeted with the sleeves of her parka, tugging them down before plucking up the courage to keep the conversation going.

"Do you miss it? Iran?" Christine asked gently.

He sat back for a moment, staring over at the stream of passerby. His eyes were still glazed over, if only less so after Christine's delicate question. "Sometimes, but… this is my home now. I visit when I can, but--truthfully, there are too many memories back in Iran. Too much of the past. I was happy to leave, not just to pursue my career, but to start over. To start fresh."

Silence hung in the air for another long pause. Christine didn't want to pry any more than she might have already, but nonetheless, she couldn't help but wonder what it was that made Isak want to start over hundreds of miles away from his birthplace. Another thought flashed briefly in her mind: isak had mentioned having a daughter on the plane. Christine wondered if she was still back in Iran--or perhaps she was living here with him? Or perhaps --perhaps something far worse. She made a mental note to ask about her, another time, perhaps. She was prying enough as it was. Besides, Isak didn't talk about her very much, so she anticipated something painful behind the story Christine wanted to hear.

"That's brave of you," she eventually said. "I…I empathize," she managed to say, smiling up at Isak a little helplessly. Christine felt silly, comparing herself to Isak, that is, someone with a full resume, a real name in the music industry. She was just-- Christine. She wasn't anyone special.

x

 _She is something special,_ Erik thought to himself. But he couldn't put his finger on it. Normally he scoffed at young people who dressed like her. Try-hards, he called them. Christine didn't seem like she was trying. She was just… Christine. She was effortlessly stylish with her parka, ripped jeans, and clunky white trainers. Effortlessly beautiful.

Erik was in a trance, his gaze held captive by Christine, never bothering to look over at Isak. Besides, Isak knew well enough he was there, even though Erik did not so much as breathe a word about his plans to watch over their first planned meeting. Erik was sitting inside, adjacent to a patio window, but thankfully, the unusually sunny weather prompted  the staff to open the windows, not only allowing an unobstructed view of the pair, but he was able to catch small snippets of their conversation whenever they happened to raise their voices slightly. Beyond that, he was particularly adept at reading lips, so it was not difficult at all to figure out their flow of their conversation. Erik had picked out the perfect spot to hide out, arriving almost a full hour before Christine had--he was settled in a corner booth, so that his line of sight could easily travel the expanse of the small but spacious bistro.  Luckily, Christine was to his far left, so Erik could easily nestle into the booth to stay away from her should her line of sight travel over towards his side of the restaurant.  He had ordered an entire bottle of wine almost as soon as he sat down, but it hadn't been touched since the waiter had set it down some time ago. It wasn't going to be touched for the remainder of his visit, but he felt obligated to buy something. He even made sure it was rather expensive --something to make up for since he knew he'd be taking up one of their booths for quite some time. Furthermore, Erik had anticipated the strange glances from the wait staff, so to alleviate the waiter's nervous gaze as much as possible, he slid over several bank notes right as they brought over the bottle of wine and glass. As a feeble attempt to explain himself, he gestured at his laptop resting comfortably between the wall of the booth and his thigh, muttering something about looking for creative inspiration, and that he would be there for quite some time… but the waiter had hardly listened, only nodding dumbly as he walked away, counting his newfound treasures.

Erik stayed very still all the while as he watched their meeting from afar, taking care not to give his disguise away. He felt a bit ridiculous, feeling as if he were a mannequin with his stiff back and hardened expression, but it was the only way he could get away with being out in the public--that is, it minimized the number of stares. Silently, he thanked Isak for choosing this restaurant, since Erik had frequented it often enough to know where to sit so as to go as unnoticed as possible.

It had taken him almost the whole morning to put on the prosthetics on the lower half of his face. Completely still, it was passable as his real face, but any strain of muscle movement would give away the façade almost immediately since they sat so heavily on top of his otherwise gaunt face. Thankfully, the top half could be easily shielded with oversized sunglasses and baseball cap with the brim pulled low across his forehead. With the muted colors he had chosen for today's outfit, and the fact that he didn't move an inch in his seat, neither Isak nor Christine seemed to notice him, let alone glance in his direction--even though he was angled ever so slightly towards their table on the patio. No, Christine did not even turn her head towards the restaurant, for her gaze--when it wasn't fixed on Isak, her head was swiveling on a 180-degree axis, looking up and down the cobblestoned street, following as many passerby as she could with her eyes. Her shiny, stick-straight black hair rippled around the nape of her neck with each twist and turn--it was hypnotizing.

After nearly ten minutes, Erik's heart still hadn't stopped leaping out of his chest. His mind was running wild, imagining how it sounded when she opened her mouth to sing--how soft her hands felt, or perhaps how calloused they felt from playing instruments and strumming guitar frets--or even, he dared to wonder, how soft her lips felt, should they happen to graze on his own… These things--these feelings Erik had for Christine--he had never wondered about another woman. At least, not a real woman. Perhaps one in his fantasies, embedded deep in his subconscious from years past, but never were they thoughts of a real women laying her hands on him--why would they ever? He thought to himself. He wasn't meant to be touched. That was just… the way things were. He was meant to create art, and for people to watch and listen from afar. Erik had accepted that many years ago. 

But then… why now? Why were his deepest, unfulfilled desires manifesting in this young woman? No, this girl? Hardly a woman, he thought to himself, cursing inwardly. Of course it would be her. Someone he knew he could never have. Not only because she was far too beautiful for someone like Erik, but if they were to start working together… it would only complicate things. He knew for a fact that musicians who had become romantically involved started to place their relationship over the music, and then eventually, the music fell to the wayside, whether it be because they were far too enamored with each other to focus on their work or because they started to resent each other and focus on the fame and money rather than the art of their music, only to end both their careers and their romance in shambles.

No, he surmised. It could never happen…It shouldn't. Shouldn't it?

X

 

They had only just received their food, and Christine was picking at a salad, lifting her fork occasionally to her mouth often enough so she didn't seem rude. The truth was, she had no appetite to speak of at the moment; she was far too nervous. Meanwhile, Isak was getting to work on a margherita pizza, making considerable headway in between pieces of conversation. After a bit of small talk--the food, the restaurant, the beautiful weather--Isak had polished off the majority of his pizza before he decided to turn his attention to the real reason they were there in the first place. 

"Now, forgive me, Christine but I couldn't help but wonder--why Paris? New York has a perfectly widespread music scene, doesn't it?"

Christine was caught slightly off-guard, still working on chewing a mouthful of vegetables. Thankfully, it was such a small bite, she quickly swallowed before speaking. "Well, what initially piqued my interest was the disco house scene. It's so--full of life. The sounds of those beats… I can't explain what it is, but it ignites something in me. I've explored every other kind of music that New York had to offer, but--it never had the same effect." Isak only leaned forward in response, silently prompting Christine to continue.

She smiled to herself, tilting her head out towards the street once again as she suddenly recalled the start of it all. "I remember one day my mom and I were listening to the radio in the kitchen. I was eating breakfast, she was getting my lunch ready for school. This was probably--gosh, like, 15 years ago. I must have been in elementary school still. A song came on that had the most amazing, funky backbeat. It had a little bit of everything -- funk, disco, hip hop, rock--but it still sounded so new and fresh. My mom and I stopped and just stood there in the kitchen. Listening. We were mesmerized. But then, about halfway through, we started to dance and bob our heads. The song's lyrics were quite repetitive, so at that point we were able to sing along no problem. It was--magical. I'll never forget hearing that song for the first time. Immediately after it had ended, my mom called the radio station and asked them what the name of that song was. I don't think we'd ever called into a radio station before… come to think of it, I don't think we've ever done it since."

"I think I already know the answer to my question, but who did you and your mother hear on the radio that day?" 

Christine laughed breathily. "Would you like to guess?"

"Daft Punk," they both chorused back at the same time, then laughing at each others' expense. It was common knowledge that French electronic music, that is, disco house, was not wide spread at all until Daft Punk had come along.

The old, familiar image of their gold and silver chrome-plated helmets suddenly struck Christine with a more fresh image in her mind--Le Fantôme. He dressed up a bit like them, she thought to herself idly. If she was going to ask about him, now would be as good a time as any… But before she could form a coherent way to ask about the Phantom, Isak decided it was his turn to speak, and Christine quickly turned her thoughts away from the mystery DJ, choosing to focus on what Isak was about to say.

"Of course, they--they are something. I wish I could say I knew them, but they are extremely private." Isak stopped himself from almost blurting out, _Almost as private as my friend--_

"That's pretty typical of them, isn't it?" Christine said affectionately. "I respect them so much. They're a huge part of the reason I'm here right now. I mean, I know they're not here in Paris now, but the fact that this is where they got all their inspiration--it's just so cool," she said, laughing at herself a little. "I know it's a bit silly, but… they changed my life. They helped me realize that--making music isn't about the fame, or the money," she explained to Isak, leaning forward over the table. "Music should always come first, no matter what."

X

Erik had to look away as if he were being blinded by Christine's wide blue eyes. He stared down at his laptop, dumbfounded. _Did she really just say that?_

He couldn't believe his ears. It was as if she had read his mind. As if-- _as if it were destiny?_

Something in Erik's mind began to shift. Up until now, he had been very guarded, very aware of Christine. He had shrunken into the shadows, watching her in amazement, captivated by her natural charisma and charm--but he also watched with the slightest hint of suspicion. She was a stranger, he thought to himself. How could he so easily allow her into his life like Isak had suggested? It would never work. Besides, even if they did manage to come to some sort of solution, it would only be a compromise--a half-measure of what he truly dreamed of accomplishing with his music. It would be too complicated, too messy.

But then she uttered those words: "Music should always come first, no matter what."

Erik felt his guard fall away, leaning forward onto the table. He suddenly didn't care if Christine turned around and saw him. In fact, he desired it more and more as each second passed.

It had to be her. He had never felt so determined and sure of anything else in his life.

X

Isak had grown oddly quiet--he had even stopped eating his meal, staring off into the distance. Although Christine had noticed this almost immediately, instead of bringing attention to it, her gut instinct was to just continue prattling on. Perhaps this made it worse, but now that she was talking, she couldn't seem to stop.

"Besides, American music is far too predictable for my taste," she offered, shrugging a little. "Case in point: whenever I tell people I'm into electronic music, all they think of are light shows, lasers, and girls in scantily bikinis and spinning glow sticks while they drop acid. That's the trouble with the music industry over there--everything has to be compartmentalized. Categorized, put into a box." 

His eyes slowly traveled back to Christine, and she inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. Shaking his head a little, as if to wake himself from whatever reverie his train of thought had traveled to, he smiled and responded to her comment: "We certainly are more… experimental and, er, free-form, as it were. I hear a lot of musicians often half-joking about how Americans just steal sounds from the Europeans and water it down to something more easily digestible for the mainstream media." He laughed a little, and Christine was more than happy to join in too. Truthfully, she was surprised that he had even retained any information since his mind seemed to be on other things. But that was no longer the case, for Isak's gaze had trained back onto her.

"I remember I asked you where you see yourself in ten years on the plane. But, now that we're both more focused on the present-- what are your short-term goals? What do you plan on getting out of this visit?"

Christine smiled knowingly as she congratulated her own foresight. She had anticipated this question based on their conversation on the plane, and she already had something in her mind, ready to counter back as confidently as she could possibly muster, though she was still a bundle of nerves. She put down her salad fork and straightened up, shaking back her hair a little before looking Isak square into his deep brown eyes.

"Inspiration, and collaboration. I want to really refine my sound, and the creativity that the underground disco culture breeds is the perfect place to do that. I also want to start working with other people who think like me. Who have similar goals in mind. Most people I had met in New York were craving fame or didn't have the stamina to commit themselves fully to a project. I want to work with people who are--well, who are obsessed like me," she said a little sheepishly. "I'm a firm believer that collaboration can improve even the greatest musician there is. I mean, yes, I'm huge fans of Daft Punk and Justice, but for good reason--they're both musical duos who put music above everything. They help each other, they inspire each other, and--I don't know what else, but I do know that it's some of the coolest things I've ever heard."

"Good answer." Isak gave Christine a big smile. He was content enough now to grab the last slice of his now cold pizza, chewing on it thoughtfully before talking again. "So, is it safe to say that disco house is your favorite genre?"

"Not necessarily," she said slowly. "I think my favorite genres actually shift a bit depending on my state of mind." She mirrored Isak, taking a bite of her salad to buy time to think of the best way to explain herself. "But I think if I had to classify a specific genre, it would have to be… electropop. I love the sounds of synthesizers and modular devices that characterizes electronic music, but it also has to be catchy, which most people can agree that that's the defining trait of pop music. It can't just be noise for the sake of noise," she said, waving her free hand a little to emphatically. "Not always, anyway.  If it's not particularly catchy, then it should at least capture the listener's ear, with at least some semblance of intent," she allowed, this time taking a big bite of her salad to indicate she was done talking for the time being.

Once again, Isak was quiet. Other than the sound of them chewing, the only thing in their ears was the ambient noise of the restaurant--the clinking of silverware and the soft hum of the surrounding conversations.  At first, Christine thought he had grown quiet because he wasn't happy with something she might have said. Or, maybe it was the exact opposite. It wasn't certain which was the case, so instead of gaping at Isak, trying to determine which one was more likely, she focused intently on her salad, polishing off the last bit of croutons and dressing.

After several long moments, Christine heard his voice, but she kept her head down out of sheer panic. "Well, Christine--I'm probably going to be as surprised as you are that I'm saying this, but… how would you like to shadow a session in one of my recording studios?"

Her head jerked up suddenly. Christine had to confirm what she thought she heard, so her eyes grew wide, searching Isak's demeanor for a sign. His eyes were warm, and a dark eyebrow was raised somewhat questioningly. Did that mean--?

"Seriously?"

"Sure, I could check out the bookings lined up for the next week or so, and if someone who has similar interests is recording, I could--"

Her mouth dropped open ever so slightly, and Isak's words began to tune out to white noise as the shock took over. _A recording studio_ , she marveled to herself. _A real recording studio with real artists…_ But then the shock quickly wore off into something slightly less impactful: she wouldn't actually be recording. This wasn't a record deal. But, still--this had to mean Isak saw potential in her. Christine's heart leapt slightly at the very thought.

"Isak--" she began. "That's too kind of you, really. I--thank you, thank you so much," she said earnestly, looking at him with urging eyes. "But--" her voice faltered a bit, feeling the slightest twinge of sadness before adding, "don't feel like you have to do this. I don't want to be an inconvenience to the artists or anything like that, so I'd understand if--"

Isak started to protest, but a second interruption suddenly occurred, much to both of their surprise: A phone began trilling loudly, indicating it was nearby. Both of them looked down, looking to see if it was their phone. It was Christine's: her phone's caller ID indicated that someone with a Paris area code was calling. The only contact stored in her phone with a Paris code was Meg, she thought to herself. But on top of that, no one from Paris called her because--well, she didn't know anyone else besides Meg. Maybe it was Meg, and she was just calling on someone else's phone. That had to mean it was some kind of emergency. Or, Christine suddenly thought, it was a club manager from the other night. Her stomach did another flip, quickly pressing the "accept call" button before it went to voicemail.

"Allo?" She said, before placing her hand on the phone, dumbly mouthing an apology to Isak. He smiled sympathetically, and she excused herself, getting up and proceeding to walk down the sidewalk as she tried to identify the voice on the other end of the line.

 X

Isak's gaze carefully shifted back and forth, glancing at Erik intermittently until Christine was well out of his sight, fully preoccupied with her phone conversation. About halfway into the lunch, Isak had locked eyes with Erik, and he wanted to make sure that Christine didn't catch on to the fact that there was a second pair of eyes and ears drinking in the conversation. Nevertheless, the things Christine said--he couldn't help but look over at Erik occasionally to see his reaction. It was a little self-indulgent of Isak, but he couldn't help himself: it was astounding how much Christine sounded like Erik when he first began producing. The only difference, he reminded himself, was willingness to collaborate. After over 10 years of knowing Erik, he never willingly collaborated with a single artist. The only intention his old friend ever had with any collaboration in the past was simply to make a quick buck; to secure his personal finances. He wrote hit songs in his sleep, in a matter of minutes, and he would lazily pass it along to the artist, with the occasional critique or suggestion if he was slightly interested in the particular musician that had hired him. 

Isak whipped out his own phone, electing to using his messaging app to talk to Erik. "Well?"

After watching Erik shift a little in his booth, his phone vibrated with a new message alert. "I want her in the next recording session I'm booked for. I don't care who it is." 

"Are you going to try and get her to play? We still don't know if she's actually any good."

"Depends. Maybe we can take her on as an assistant producer, just a formal title so the client doesn't question her should she contribute at all." Isak's phone buzzed again. Another new message. Erik was half talking to Isak, half to himself. "Or maybe… maybe we could give her some free sessions. I would be there to see what material she has to work with. I don't know why, but… I have a feeling."

"I figured. So… you're in."

"Don't look so damned pleased with yourself, Isak. If she can't produce, she's out."

X

"I'm so sorry, Isak!" she said somewhat breathlessly as she had managed to walk quite a ways down the sidewalk, some yards away from the restaurant as her phone call unfolded. "Isak, I--this is insane, what just happened. I'm sorry, but I have to tell someone--"

"What is it?" he said, perking up slightly as he slid his phone back into his jacket pocket discreetly. Isak couldn't help being curious.

"I--I just booked a gig!" Christine's cheeks had become flushed pink slightly, her eyes shimmering with excitement. "I'm going to perform a set next Thursday! Me!" she exclaimed weakly, hardly believing her own words.

"That's wonderful, Christine, congratulations," Isak said encouragingly, giving her a warm smile. "That's a huge first step! Are you sure you even need my help?" He said jokingly. "You seem to be doing just fine."

Her eyes grew wide suddenly. "Y-you mean I can't-- I can't go to your--?"

"Oh, but of course you can! Don't worry," Isak said, laughing in spite of Christine's roller coaster of emotions. "I still want to help as much as I can. I see so much potential with you, truly," he said, reaching over to touch her upper arm gently with reassurance. "And know that it's not an inconvenience. I know for a fact there are always people looking for new blood, so when the opportunity arises, I'll bring you in for a session."

"Oh my goodness, you just reminded me; I almost forgot--" Christine suddenly ducked under the table, pawing around for her bag for a few moments before emerging with a thumb drive clutched in her hand. "My demo. I still have to prove to you that I'm not all talk, you know," she reminded Isak as he graciously accepted it. "And maybe you can give some critiques on it-- I mean, given the fact that you don't end up completely hating it," she said a little too seriously.

Isak chuckled despite her tone. "Christine, you've just booked a gig. I'm not too worried." His voice was calming, reassuring-- it eased Christine's nerves, if only a little.

"Well, Isak,  I seriously can't thank you enough. Thank you for being so generous, it's really--it means more to me than you know." Isak only nodded, and they both smiled at each other, quiet for a moment. But then, Christine started to fidget a little, looking down at her bag that she had set on the floor when she arrived.

"I--I  don't mean to be rude, Isak, but--I think I'd better head home and get to work. Start planning out my playlist." She looked up from her bag sheepishly. "Besides, I don't want to take up any more of your time, you're probably very busy--"

"I understand," Isak said simply, continuing to smile serenely at the young, overexcited girl sitting in front of him. She was practically bursting at the seams with joy, and Isak couldn't help but marvel at her, feeling a twinge of nostalgia for the same feelings he experienced as a young manager.

Christine fumbled for to take out her wallet, but Isak held up a hand, insisting that lunch was on him. "Besides, you need to save your money if you need anything for your set next week," he said, raising his eyebrows at her.

"Oh, yes, you're right," Christine's voice trailed off slightly, her eyes glazing over. She had suddenly started to go through a mental checklist; that was obvious to Isak. So he bid her goodbye, insisting that she get plenty of sleep and hydration leading up to the gig, and that he'd be in touch; and after thanking him another five times, Christine finally scurried off, only to thank him one more time across the patio railing before she rounded the corner.

"I didn't thank you for the meal, I'm--I'm all over the place, I'm sorry," she said, placing a hand over her eyes in exasperation. "Oh, and I forgot to mention! If you're not busy next Thursday, I'll be doing my set at the Cavern! Ten o'clock!"

Christine waved, and Isak raised a hand, bidding her a lazy goodbye, his mouth hanging open slightly as she practically sprinted to the metro station across the street.

_The Cavern._

After throwing down several euros, Isak staggered over to Erik's booth, as if in a daze. He sat down in the seat across from Erik, hardly even looking at him, let alone greeting his friend.

"The Cavern. That's--"

"Thomas's place," Erik finished the sentence for Isak. His eyes were miles away, too.

"Is she--?"

Erik thought his heart could not beat any faster, but now it was practically hammering outside of his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so, so much for reading, everyone!! It really means a lot! I hope you have/had a wonderful holiday. I know 2017 is going to be awesome for all of us, especially this story...!
> 
> Please leave comments and critiques, I really want to know what y'all think. :)


	6. You're On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS HOLY CRAP HERE WE GO. Sorry this took so long.

Christine had almost dropped her phone twice now--she was practically sprinting, fumbling around to scroll down her contact list as she tried to reach her train stop as quickly as possible. The metro was only a few blocks away, and she had no idea if there was any phone service down there, but she didn't care.

 _I have to tell someone,_ she thought decidedly. Thankfully, she found the name she was looking for, frantically tapping it until the name pulled up - _MOM,_ with a pink heart emoji affixed to the end of her name.

After two rings, it hit Christine that she was probably calling during her mom's graveyard shift at the hospital. Her heart sank a little, but she was so antsy to tell someone, she thought it wouldn't hurt to tell her over voicemail--and sure enough, the familiar voicemail default message played. For a brief moment, she felt like she was home--hearing her mother's warm, calming voice washed a wave of peacefulness over Christine. Then the beep sounded.

"Mom, I-- I'm sorry this is over voicemail, but it's urgent! Wait, no--" Christine threw her palm to her forehead-- "It's nothing bad, I'm sorry, I'm just so excited," she explained, laughing helplessly. The metro station was now in view, so she knew the message had to be short. "Mom, I--I got a gig! I did it," she laughed through her words, giggling half in shock, half in joyous celebration. "I'm going to play a set at a club next Thursday. Call me when you can, and I'll tell you all about it, okay?" Her hands were trembling when she tapped the 'end call' button. Hearing it out loud again made her adrenaline skyrocket--it was real. It wasn't a dream.

The metro ride was very short--her desired destination was only a few stops away. In fact, she barely even remembered the metro ride. She was in a daze, barely registering any of her movements, save for clutching onto her messenger bag as tightly to her body as she could. Meg's lecture to Christine about pickpockets during her first time on the metro made her wary; according to her friend, they could spot a foreigner a mile away.

 _"Place del Opéra_ ," a cool male voice announced over the PA system, repeating this once more as the windows before Christine flashed the white tiles of the underground stop.

This was Christine's favorite metro stop, she thought absentmindedly to herself. She scurried out of the metro car as soon as the doors had slid open lazily, and clambered up the stairs that led to one of the most marvelous views in the whole city--the Opera house. She remembered the first time Meg had showed her the Place de l'Opéra, because as she climbed up the stairs from the train station, she was rather confused. The first view as she got to the top of the stairs was a busy traffic intersection--they had been spit out, smack-dab in the hustle and bustle of Paris rush hour. There were old, charming façade of buildings all around, but the Opera wasn't anywhere to be seen.

"But, Meg, where's the--?"

Meg had rolled her eyes, literally grabbing Christine by the shoulders and spinning her around on the spot.

And there it was. All of the other buildings that had been in Christine's initial line of sight paled in comparison to this magnificent view. Gleaming, gold statues perched atop the façade made it all the more grand, complete with Apollo raising his mythical lyre above his head for all of Paris to see. Christine stood stock-still, not realizing her mouth was hanging open slightly as she drank in all the magnificently sculpted reliefs and statues all along the columns. Only Meg's shrill cry could interrupt her sense of wonderment.

"Christine, let's go!"

"But Meg--this is-- _this_ is where you go to work every day?" Christine gave a helpless gesture towards the Opera Garnier, but her friend just tossed her white-blond hair, giving a little scoff.

"They call it a _façade_ for a reason, Christine," Meg said pointedly. "There's so much shit that goes on in that building, it would make an old woman swoon. Come on, the crosswalk--!" Christine didn't hear the last of her friend's sentence since her head whipped around to cross the street as she waved a small, lithe arm, motioning Christine to follow her. They were going away from the Opera, Christine thought sadly--

"Wait, aren't you going to take me inside?" Christine could barely hide her disappointment. "Is it--closed or something?"

"I mean, there's no rehearsals or anything happening, so it's quiet. Too boring. Anyway, it's better to go at night, during a performance. Or, if you really want I'll take you when we have an evening dress rehearsal--trust me," Meg had said. "It's so much prettier at night." Still, Christine's heart couldn't help but drop a little, craning her head back to look longingly at the Opera one last time, before she turned to head towards what looked like a popular shopping center. Of course, Meg would be more excited to show her friend the mall rather than a piece of French history, Christine had thought fondly to herself.

Finally, she was about to go in, Christine thought, her chest swelling with excitement. Now that she had emerged from the underground metro station, she pulled out her phone, tapping a couple of times to pull up Meg's number as she waited for the crosswalk signal. She sighed gustily as the dial tone kept on trilling. _Of course Meg wouldn't pick up_ , she thought, chiding her overexcitement. Meg was probably in the middle of a rehearsal--well, it was the afternoon, maybe they'll be on a break soon? Nevertheless, Christine realized that Meg wouldn't have her phone on her. Her outfits for ballet practice were so tiny, there's no reasonable way for her to tote around a large smart phone.

Well, despite her lack of planning, she was already here--she might as well head in to try and find Meg. Besides that, she ached to see the inside of the Opera house. _The inside has to be just as wonderful as the outside, doesn't it--?_

In a few moments, she was at the foot of the steps leading up to the main entrance. A few people were milling about, presumably sightseers who wanted a tour of the place. After a few moments of her eyes trailing the tourists' path, she realized that no one was actually entering via the front doors of the façade. Instead, people were veering to the left, presumably to a side entrance of some kind. With a sense of resolution, she picked out a small group of Japanese tourists and tailed them. One of them had a guide book of some sort in hand, so they looked like they knew what they were doing.

Two pairs of obelisks pointed out the east entrance, which led to a circular breezeway. Across the way, she saw a large set of doors propped open, and people were trickling in slowly--the majority, if not all of them looked like tourists, with cameras and phones at the ready to snap their first view of the Opera Garnier. Christine's heart rate picked up a little in the anticipation as she slowly filed in with the rest of them. This was it. She had been looking forward to this ever since Meg had told her she was in the Opera's ballet company.

The doors led to a cavernous-looking rotunda. It was nothing but marble and stone, with an eerie glow. Some far-off lights mimicked the flickering glow of candles. Christine's eyes traveled straight up and her jaw dropped a little when she saw the ceiling--never before had she seen such detailed inlay in a ceiling. Combined with the cool, still air, it almost felt like she had travelled back in time. She imagined she was on her way to a matinee performance in the 1880s, emerging from the inside of a horse and buggy, clad in her best evening clothes--

But then, looking back down at the floor, she glanced around somewhat reproachfully at the other bodies in the room. Their cameras, visors, and glowing blue screens had ruined her brief but wonderful reverie. Nevertheless, since she had been lurched back into reality, she elected to wander over to the line beginning to form at the box office. She was about three spots behind the front of the box office, in front of a sweet-looking Japanese couple, and an American family, who could be spotted from miles away with their obnoxiously white trainers. Craning her neck a little, Christine saw at the head of the line a lone elderly man, nodding and pointing at a map of some sort as he spoke softly to the ticket-taker.

Every now and then, Christine couldn't resist feeling her eyes float upward to the ceiling as she waited. Beyond the main rotunda, two sets of large marble staircases flanked either side of a sloping ceiling--the bright light beyond the stairs led her to guess that Christine was just below the main lobby. Upon realizing this, her heart leaped. She wanted to drink in every square inch of this beautiful, gargantuan piece of architecture and art; she wanted to explore every single room of the Opera, at least, every room she was allowed to go in. Perhaps Meg could take her to places that the public couldn't even see--!

 _Mama would flip out if she saw this,_ Christine mused, letting a tiny smile erupt on her lips. Without even hesitating to think about the fact that she was becoming the very person she had spited earlier, Christine pulled out her phone and snapped a photo of the rotunda ceiling. With the deft fingers of someone who had become particularly adept at keeping up with social media for the past ten years, she tapped only a few times to post the photo. The description read: "Just visiting @meggiry at work in a 150 year old building. NO BIG DEAL." After two more taps, the picture was there for all her followers to see. She knew her mother would see it as soon as she got off her shift. _After she checks her voicemail, hopefully._

It suddenly dawned on her: Perhaps she could just take a tour of the Opera while she waited for Meg-- all on her own. This building has seen so much history, so much so that it had become a piece of history itself. There were no buildings where Christine lived as half as old as this one--that was part of the reason she liked Paris so much. So many buildings stood for so many years--through famine, through wars, and through generations of revolutions. That fact, combined with the engineering and artistic brilliance of whoever designed this building--Christine was mesmerized. If she could, she'd wish to know every single detail of the Opera. But, alas--Meg would hardly be the best tour guide for that. Meg seemed so disillusioned with this place, but for Christine, it was so--magical. Halfheartedly, Christine decided: The tour would have to wait for another time. She had to tell Meg about her gig, she thought, snapping back into the present day, momentarily forgoing the thought of the past gilded ages. She didn't want to see anyone as badly Meg at this very instant. Well, with the obvious exception of her mother, of course--

"Miss? Can I help you? _Pardon--"_ Christine began to register the sound of the man behind the plexiglass, whose high-pitched voice sounded rather annoyed. She was standing several feet away from the window, and everyone had suddenly left. Goodness, she had been daydreaming for longer than she thought.

"I'm sorry, yes!" She scrambled up to the window, apologizing this time in French. "I'm sorry, I'm not even sure I'm in the right place. You see, I'm not looking for a tour or tickets--not just yet, anyway. My roommate is a dancer in the company and--and I need to see her." Her smooth French accent faltered a little when the young man frowned a little. "Do you think you can help me? It’s--it's urgent." _I mean, I'm not lying. It is urgent,_ she reassured herself.

"Well, normally I would give you a visitor's pass and have someone take you to her, but unfortunately, the corps are in a closed rehearsal right now. No visitors." The man momentarily took pity on Christine--even she could feel her face fall as she sighed with an air of resignation-- because he offered up some words of comfort: "I think they're supposed to wrap soon, but you never know with them. They've been at it since very early in the morning, you see. Perhaps you'd like a tour while you wait?"

Christine cocked her head to the side a little, her gaze briefly flickering over to the staircases in her periphery. "I mean--I'd be lying if I said I didn't," she said earnestly, smiling in spite of herself.

"Of course! Here, just let me check if there are any times left for the next English tour--" he quickly excused himself, walking over to the adjacent, empty box. Christine could hear him muttering faintly about new tour times since the busy season had recently concluded. As she waited, her gaze began to wander yet again, and after a few moments, her eyes landed on a small, nondescript sign that had been taped up on the bottom left corner of the window. It took her about half a second longer than she would have liked to comprehend it--she wasn't quite yet used to reading in French-- but it read, "Demander l'aide." Help wanted.

The man came back with a couple of brochures opened up, but before he could even start his spiel, Christine spoke up. "What positions are you hiring for?"

"Ah, er--my job, actually." He jerked a thumb back at the adjacent box office he had just returned from. "The girl who was working next to me moved to the south of France so, you know--" he made a face, and Christine nodded politely, pretending like she knew exactly what he was referring to.

"I'm pretty good at French, but my English is better, so maybe--maybe I could give tours, too. You know, if you need any extra help beyond the box office," Christine offered helpfully.

"Hang on-- are you authorized to work in the EU?" He raised his eyebrow reproachfully. "We can't just hire any American off the street, you know."

"Er--actually, yes. I have EU nationality from--from my dad. He--he's Swedish." Christine suddenly grew very quiet, looking down at her feet. But the young man didn't even notice.

"Oh! In that case--" He pawed around a drawer underneath his desk, producing a blank notepad and pen. "Here, write down your contact information. We'll call you to talk about the position, okay?"

"Wow, er--thank you-- does that--does that mean I'm hired?" She asked hopefully as she leaned to scribble down her name and mobile.

"No, not yet, anyway. We have to make sure all your papers are in order, and my boss needs to meet you to make sure that you're not a basket case, so--if you can manage those two things, you'll basically have the job," he said, waving his hand reassuringly. He looked down his nose to see what Christine was writing. "Christine. That's a nice name. I'm Alexander."

"Hi Alexander. Nice to meet you. Hopefully I'll be seeing more of you--not just to beg you to take me to the ballet rehearsals," she chuckled sheepishly. He only nodded in response, tapping a few keys on his computer. A printer started whirring loudly, and a piece of paper spat out on his left side.

"So--the next tour's in 15 minutes. Caroline's leading the tour. You'll like her, she's so sweet." He ripped out a single ticket from the printer's slot, opening the bottom partition door to slide it underneath the plexiglass. Christine suddenly opened her bag to try and fish out some Euro, but Alexander shooed her away. "Get out of here, you're to sweet to pay. It's okay, really."

"Oh-- wow, really? You're too kind." She flashed her best winning smile before her browed furrowed the tiniest bit. "You're--you're sure it's alright? You won't get in trouble?"

Alexander shook his head, waving her off once more. "Seriously. It's fine. But--" Christine had started to sling her bag across her shoulder, but then she saw him with his hand held up, as if to stop her, she froze like a deer in the headlights. He suddenly grew very serious. "I must ask you one thing.

"Your roommate--in the ballet. That's Meg Giry, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes! But--how did you know?"

"There was talk that she had an American roommate. It hadn't occurred to me until now that it could have been you they were talking about. Now, for my question." She didn't know it, but Christine had briefly stopped breathing. "Tell me--is she really bi? Bisexual?"

"Oh--Meg?" Christine felt a twinge of relief. Truthfully, she didn't know what she expected him to ask "Yes, I--I think so." The more she thought about it, the more angry she was the he asked that answer. _What did it matter, anyway?_

"Good, that's enough payment for me." he said as his chest swelled with confidence, and he slid the tickets underneath the partition. "It's settled. I'll ask her out tomorrow."

It wasn't until Christine yanked the tour passes out of his hand when she smiled serenely and replied with a cool, steely tone: "She's got a girlfriend, but best of luck, all the same."

____________________________

"She's Morgon?" Erik repeated, this time with an air of anger about the question. "Isak, how did you _not know_?"

"Erik, I've told you, I haven't listened to her demos yet. I had no idea she--" he stopped mid-sentence, eyes widening a little.

"What?" Erik's pointed tone had not wavered. He raked his eyes over Isak, who had begun to pat around his lapels and pockets, scrambling to find something. "Did you leave your wallet back there?"

Isak shook his head, silently ending his brief treasure hunt, for he had produced from an inner jacket pocket a small, shiny silver USB drive. It had a blue, see-through cap, covering the metallic square that would be inserted into the USB port. It was the one Christine had passed over to him just minutes ago. He held it out toward's Erik, who quickly snatched it up. Isak spoke hollowly: "Is that the same kind of drive Thomas had that night? The one you took?"

Erik nodded. Of course it was. This confirmed their suspicions, and Erik's mind began to reel.

"But… I still don't understand. She never told you she went by another name. On her demo that she gave to Thomas--there wasn't any indication as to--that she was even--"

Isak raised an eyebrow, marveling silently as Erik trailed off once more. Erik hardly ever lost his train of thought, let alone stuttered. "Are you insinuating she should have emphasized that she was not, in fact, of the male gender?"

Erik's eyes narrowed in response. Even though it was slight, he could detect an air of satisfaction in Isak's words. "No, I am not. I never said that, did I?"

"Well, no," Isak allowed, "but think about it, Erik. It's actually quite brilliant, don't you think?"

"What? That she pretended to be someone she's not?"

Isak shrugged. "Now you're the one putting words into my mouth, Erik. It gives her a blank slate, don't you see? When Thomas--or anyone, including yourself--sits down to listen to this, it's just about the music. Especially if this were to be sitting randomly in a pile of demos--there are no biases, not presuppositions. It's just--music. Good fucking music," he said a little helplessly, running his hands through his hair. Neither of them could still quite believe everything they heard the other night--it all belonged to Christine. "Not only did she put together this mix--she deliberately packaged this very anonymously. It's calculated. It's smart. At the very least, she knows what the industry is like when it comes to female artists." He looked up at Erik, throwing a meaningful gaze. This time, Erik could not deflect it. He collapsed a little in his chair. Even though he had his sunglasses and baseball cap on, he as obviously feeling rather sheepish. Isak was not far off at all--no, in fact, he was dead on.

Erik heaved a sigh, letting Isak win this one. "I'll be honest, I assumed that Morgon--or Christine, whoever-- when I listened to that mix, I assumed it was the work of a man."

"There we are." Isak couldn't help but savor this moment, feeling a silly rush of victory. _Can one feel victorious about sexism?_

"But… yes, I suppose she was smart to do this," Erik allowed. Isak had to lean forward to hear him, trying unsuccessfully to make eye contact with Erik despite his metallic shades. "I just… I don't know. I don't really think in terms of gender," he tried to protest helplessly.

"Of course you don't think about these things, Erik. Bless your heart, it's one of the few tortures you haven't had to endure," Isak said rather sardonically.

"I'm sorry, Isak. Really. I--I didn't know." This time, Erik really did sound contrite. Isak understood: Erik never hated women, but neither did he particularly want to ever associate himself with them. He fell somewhere outside the realm of most straight men and their feelings for the opposite sex: Isak knew Erik was attracted to women, but never the idea of actually _being_ with a woman. Not because he didn't want to be, but because… things would get too messy, Isak thought as his eyes trailed along the almost-invisible seam of Erik's artificial hair line that peeked out from his cap. Erik would never want to reveal who he really was, least of all someone infinitely more beautiful than he. But nonetheless, Isak responded in a similarly earnest tone.

"Look, Erik--you have to understand. Just because she's a girl--a young woman--she's probably had to deal with so much stereotyping and assumptions for her entire life. Especially as a musician. Most girls who look like her--they want to be on camera in scantily clad clothes, writhing around while lip-syncing some repetitive, auto-tuned song. So I imagine most studio executives, when they see her face, put her into that category automatically. Regardless of how talented she is. Just because she's a girl-- a pretty girl--doesn't mean she's not to be respected and taken seriously."

Erik was silent for a moment, digesting Isak's words. But--how did Isak even know all of this? He's not a woman--

"Isak, you've thought about this quite extensively, haven't you? Why?"

"Isadora."

Immediately, Erik understood, and bowed his head a little, letting the brim of his cap shield himself from Isak for a moment. Once again, Isak's word trumped Erik's. Being continually bested by his old friend was becoming exhausting, he thought to himself absentmindedly.

"I'm sorry, Isak," he whispered. His words hung in the air for quite some time, growing stale, so instead, he chose to stop being defensive, even if for just a moment. "For what it's worth… you would have made… no. You _are_ a great father." He looked Isak dead in the eye this time. He peered over his sunglasses, throwing Isak an apologetic look.

"Thanks, Erik. Really." Isak smiled, but his eyes were far away. He wasn't really looking at his friend. He was picturing his daughter.

"Well… I guess we'd better plan to go down to the Cavern next week. Thursday?" Erik replied, echoing Christine's words.

"Thursday. Erik-- tell me, how exactly do you plan on watching her play at your station without having a coronary? She'll probably be using your deck, maybe even some equipment of yours." Isak raised his eyebrow, raising his formerly sullen tone to something more cheerful and joking. "What if she ruins your Juno?"

"Don't even joke about that," Erik said hollowly. His precious analog synth was nestled among all the digital hardware--it was nondescript, with its simple design--but it was unstoppable. "That thing is priceless, it's programmed perfectly to the way I want--maybe I'd better take it out, now that you mention it," he said, more to himself than Isak.

  
"But, I mean--if she does break it, it's okay. She's pretty enough to get away with it," Isak countered back, eyes twinkling playfully. He couldn't help but let his smile show this time, with the slight crow's feet around his eyes giving his age away. "I mean--you _do_ think she's pretty, no?"

"What? I never said that." Erik was making a point to stare down at his lap as he said this. His hands suddenly turned clammy, but he tried to stay still, not giving himself away. He failed miserably.

"Yeah, well, you have a terrible poker face," Isak said, not even bothering to hide his laughter.

________________________

The tour guide's voice was so small and thin, Christine had to strain to make out her spiel in French--or perhaps it only seemed that way because of how high the ceiling of this room was, combined with the fact that she was at the very rear of the tour group. When they first walked into the Grand Foyer, Christine almost dropped her bag on the floor--her entire body went slack, and she just--stood there for almost an entire minute. Everywhere she looked, there was something to occupy her mind with: chandeliers, gold-casted sculptures and friezes on top of the rows of columns that lined the room on either side, the murals that criss-crossed the ceiling--! Just as down below in the rotunda, she was taken completely by surprise. She had seen pictures on the internet, yes, but never had she expected it to be this magnificent and-- _huge_. Everything in the pictures made it look rather average--they were only a few inches large on her laptop screen, and she thus severely underestimated the sheer grandeur. Even the candlesticks towered above her head. At the opposite end of the oblong-shaped foyer, there was the biggest, most opulently decorated fireplace she had ever seen. Ever so slowly she began to trudge towards the fireplace--she didn't want to reach it. Not just yet, anyway. Everyone else in the tour group had slowed down, too--as ridiculous and over-the-top as this room was, it was something wonderful to think about. What have these walls seen? How many stories did it hold? What sounds have bounced off these walls? Christine vaguely wondered if people would steal away in this room if they ever became restless sitting in their stalls during a performance.

She caught her reflection in the mirror as her gaze momentarily traveled downward--she looked ridiculous in this setting. With her modern clothes against this massive Baroque backdrop, she felt almost--embarrassed? It was silly, she knew, but--suddenly she longed to have her hair piled up onto her head, with a wonderful silk gown that would have made the most exquisite sound if its train slid against the paneling of the wood floor as she walked. She looked upon her reflection as she would if she were someone that was alive at the time of the grand opening--1875, maybe? The women would probably gawk at her, revolted--clad in her scuffed trainers and black parka likely would make her stick out like a sore thumb--women didn't even wear pants back then--did they--?

Suddenly, two very odd things happened at once: Christine heard the odd ambient sounds of the tourists had suddenly turned into a collective murmur, and felt the sensation of someone tugging very hard on the side of her jacket. Then, a hissing sound:

" _Christine!_

After rounding on the spot, everything made sense, albeit rather slowly for Christine since her mind had been miles away: the tugging and the calling of her name came from none other than her dear roommate, Meg. The murmuring--well, it started to fade away, but then Christine saw in her peripheral a few camera flashes going off in their direction.

Meg had to physically drag Christine out of the room, not because she wanted to stay, but she was trying to figure out why they had suddenly become the center of attention. "Were they taking pictures of us? I don't--"

"Honestly, Christine, you'd leave your head somewhere if it wasn't screwed on to your shoulders," Meg huffed at her, veering to the left--nearing the outskirts of where the general public was allowed. "Do you not see what I'm wearing?" She violently gestures at her costume--and it clicked. She was in a proper ballet outfit, and among the tourists' muted streetwear and dark jackets, she had stuck out like a sore thumb when she entered the Grand Foyer. She was wearing a powder-pink leotard and an oversized white crepe tutu skirt. It was shaped like a bell, flowing wonderfully as Meg walked--or, rather, hurried--along with Christine. The stark colors of her outfit were lovely, but woefully they were interrupted by a set of stocky, warm-looking fur-lined boots, and a tiny shrug that covered her otherwise bare arms. She couldn't blame Meg, she imagined that she was awfully cold in this huge, drafty building--at least, not when she was leaping about, or--whatever it was she did when she came to rehearse with the corps.

She only saw the back of Meg's head as they traveled down the hallway, but Christine thought she could see a glimmer of bright-colored glitter on the side of her face when she turned to look behind to ensure her friend was still following. She have makeup on? But Meg never said anything about a dress rehearsal-- and besides, if Christine's memory served correctly, dress rehearsals typically happened in the evening for the ballet.

They arrived at an elevator, and Meg jammed the 'up' button before rounding to face Christine. Her face was, in fact, covered with glitter--actually, blush with glitter on top. She looked like a doll--a very angry doll. Beads of sweat were beginning to form on her face, and her tiny chest was heaving a little. She was so much shorter than Christine, so even though she wanted to tower over her American roommate, she had to tilt her chin up to properly berate her from her height. "I tried to call you back, Christine, why the hell didn't you pick up? If my captain sees any pictures surface online, she's going to _kill me_ \--" Even though she obviously had more to say, she broke eye contact with Christine, peering over her shoulder. Before Christine could follow her line of sight, they heard the elevator chime gently. Meg darted inside, and yanked Christine in. " _Hurry!"_ she hissed, jamming yet another button on the inside repeatedly.

"What? It's not a big deal--" but as Christine turned around to follow where Meg had been looking earlier-- a small cluster of people had their smart phones out, and the sounds of a camera shutter echoed slightly down the hall. Even more odd--most of the people taking pictures looked--Korean? Chinese?

"Meg, really, I'm so sorry about all this, but-- hang on. Can you please clue me in on what's going on? Are you really this, like, huge celebrity somewhere abroad and you've just never told me--?"

Meg had elected to hide behind her friend, saying nothing for a moment, and was successful in blocking the paparazzi's view until the elevator door finally slid shut. Hopping back out from Christine's back, she sighed gustily. "I don't think they got that many good pictures, thank goodness you're taller than me--"

"Meg," Christine was about to ask her question again, when--

"Okay, okay, just--you have to swear that you won't tell anyone. Swear. Do you swear?"

Christine's expression became gleeful. "I was right," she breathed silently. "You're, like, the Misty Copeland of France, aren't you?"

Meg rolled her eyes. "Christine, I love you, but you're being really thick right now," she said with an air of exasperation. "Just shut up and let me finish. But before I say anything--I'm serious, Christine. You can't tell _anyone_ what I’m about to tell you."

Christine nodded. "Sorry," she mumbled. "I promise. And I'll shut up until you say I'm allowed to talk again. Promise."

"Okay, so, this all happened very last minute. The corps had been rehearsing a tentative routine but they never confirmed with us a date or time. So, finally, the captain gets the call last night. She told us we had to be here at 5am this morning, she wouldn't say why until we got here, because we all had to sign this really strict nondisclosure agreement. Then, as soon as we get here--" Meg crossed herself silently, "Forgive me, Father--for I am about to sin-- There was a camera crew! Lights, cameras--everything! And--!"

Meg had said all of this very fast, but was suddenly interrupted by the elevator chime once again. As the doors began to slide open, she quickly fell silent, and stared with eyes as big as saucers at what laid beyond the elevator threshold.

Christine had been standing with her back to the elevator doors, so without much forethought to what Meg could possibly be staring at, said very loudly: "What is it _now_ , Meg?" as she rounded on the spot.

A very large, lean, and decidedly masculine torso covered in starched black cotton was the first thing that met Christine's gaze. She jumped back a little, not only surprised to find that someone was so close to the elevator door, but that that someone was literally towering over her and her friend. Her eyes darted up to the head attached to the torso, and her wandering stare met a dark, gleaming pair of eyes. She actually started back a little, not just startled, but--rather amazed at their glamor: The eyes were framed with dramatic black kohl, smoked out around his lower and upper lids, making him look even more mysterious. But his pale, milky skin nearly neutralized his look, giving him a softer, more tender look. It was strange how someone could look so mysterious and so angelic all at once. Christine had the sudden urge to reach up and touch his cheek, because his complexion was absolutely flawless. Absentmindedly, she thought of a documentary she watched some time ago about the inner workings of the Korean pop music industry, and how he was a spitting image of them--he was certainly pretty enough, that was for sure.

Meg suddenly said something in a foreign language, her tone high pitched and strained. Was it Korean? Before Christine could throw Meg a questioning look, Christine once again felt the sensation of a small yet able hand clutching her upper arm and wheeling her to the immediate right, down a hallway that led to a set of double doors. Christine guessed that Meg had previously apologized for disturbing him, because now, Meg was utterly silent. Christine got the idea that she should follow suit, at the very least, until their were out of earshot of the mysterious young man--she began to scurry after her friend, doing everything in her power not to make eye contact with this beautiful young man as she sped away.

"Wait!" a deep voice that came from the elevator, and Meg froze on the spot, right in the middle of the hallway. Christine didn't register until after a step or two that the voice came from the Korean dark angel. "You--you were in rehearsal today, weren't you? But--who is this?"

Meg waited a beat too long to turn around. Christine threw a strained look at her, but her poor friend seemed almost paralyzed. This was so out of character for Meg--normally, she was so outgoing and bubbly. Was she--afraid? Maybe she was going to get in trouble?

They had either two options: run or try to talk their way out of it. Standing here wasn't going to help anything. The silence hanging in the air was driving Christine mad. Without being able to stand it a second longer, she turned around and broke free from Meg's now limp hands.

"I'm actually Meg's roommate," she offered, realizing her voice was half of an octave higher than usual, and louder than she had expected. "I'm Christine." Suddenly unaware of her body's actions, she found herself at arm's length away from the man, sticking out her hand as a friendly offering. He darted his dark, hypnotizing eyes down at her outstretched hand. This time, it was his turn to hesitate too long--it was almost as if he had never seen a handshake before. But before Christine could say anything, though, his eyes lit up, suddenly understanding. He quickly took her hand--his long, sinewy, pale forearm was accentuated because his shirt sleeves were rolled up. Christine stared dumbly, marveling at how much he looked like he was carved from cool, tough marble, but when he grasped her hand, his hand was warm, matching the inviting tone of his voice.

"Hello, I'm Sehun," he said. She looked up, and his eyes suddenly had a twinkle--he was being genuine. Because of Meg's skittish behavior, not to mention his initially intimidating demeanor, she had anticipated the man-- _Sehun_ \--to be somewhat cold and--maybe even rude. But not so, much to her relief. After registering his tone, Christine also noticed his accent--it was a relatively even blend of Korean and American, so it was hard to tell what country he truly hailed from.

"Christine--" her heart literally fluttered, and she flushed a slight pink when she heard him say her name. Why was she acting like a middle school girl all of a sudden? "Ah, yes, and Meg. I had forgotten her name, I am sorry--there were so many of you in rehearsal, it was hard to remember everyone's name." His gaze shifted up to Meg as he called after her. Christine turned around a little so that she could see Meg, while still keeping Sehun in her periphery. Sure enough, Meg was still rooted to the spot, but she looked noticeably more relaxed--if only a little. Her neck and décolletage was splotchy and red, a deep blush slowly creeping up to her face. _Did I look that stupid when he said my name?_ Christine suddenly worried to herself.

Since Meg still did not seem physically capable of uttering a coherent sentence, Sehun offered her a polite compliment. "You dance beautifully, Meg--really well done. I understand why your--" he paused to search for the word-- "captain asked for you to be closest to the camera--you really shine when you're dancing."

Christine's brow furrowed slightly. Camera? She tried desperately to recall what Meg had been telling her about prior to encountering Sehun…. But Meg obviously knew what he was talking about. She went from embarrassed to surprised, and finally managed to sputter out a few words: "Th--thank you," Meg said in English with her heavy French accent. For such a small girl, her voice was a wonderful, lush alto tone, and it showed especially when she spoke in English. "That's really--really, too kind of you. You're--you're an excellent dancer, too--" she trailed off, mumbling a little in French since she seemed too taken aback to remember any more English vocabulary.

Sehun just chuckled a little, his smile making his dark eyes sparkle a little more as they crinkled around the edges. Even though that smile wasn't meant for her, Christine's stomach did somersaults in response. It took Christine a conscious amount of effort to tear away her stare from him--she would never admit why, but deep in the pit of her stomach, she knew. "Thank you very much," he said in response, bowing his head a little. A tuft of jet black hair fell across his temple and threatened to graze across his forehead. He turned to Christine and she felt her breath catch.

"But I'm not really a dancer. I mean-- not like you, Meg. I'm not a classical dancer at all." At first, Sehun as struggling, but the more he talked, the more he fell back into a more comfortable cadence of English. He must have picked up on this, too: "Sorry if my English sounds weird, I--I haven't spoken English for awhile. I've been abroad for so long!" He exclaimed in surprise, as if he just now came to the realization.

"Oh, it's fine," both Christine and Meg said at the same time--though Christine found herself saying it much more hastily. Perhaps it was because of her fluency, but Meg's English seemed significantly more sluggish compared to hers. No, it wasn't that. It wasn't that at all, she thought. It had to do with the fact that Christine's heart was racing, her eyes were dilated, and her palms has been clammy ever since she shook hands with him…

"But--why do you say that?" Meg questioned. Christine's eyebrows shot up--Meg's curiosity had overcome what she thought was crippling intimidation and fear--enough to where she could finally resemble her old, chatty self. "But that's ridiculous. I just saw you in there--your breakdancing and everything! You're wonderful!"

"Wait. Breakdancing?" Christine echoed instinctively. Sehun looked at her blankly, but then--a small hint of surprise flashed across his face. Was it surprise? Disbelief--?

Suddenly, a shout from down the hall erupted from a doorway. A young man with fire engine red hair poked his head out from the suspected door. He smiled in their direction, calling Sehun--perhaps to come in? That's all they heard, though, because his head disappeared in a flash, and snapped the door shut.

"Oh, er--" Meg fidgeted a little. "You know, Sehun, we'd better go, I'm really sorry to have, ah, bothered you, we were just--"

"Oh, no, please don't leave!" Even though Christine had already begun to follow Meg, she stopped in her tracks--as if she had been blinded by his white, gleaming smile he flashed. "Please, just--I'll be right back, I promise," he insisted, starting to back away towards the opposite end of the hallway. "Don't move!"

In a flash, Sehun was gone, his black form disappearing throught the door that his friend had just appeared from.

"Okay, Meg, what the fuck is going on," Christine muttered under her breath, turning on her heel to stare down at Meg. "Quick, hurry, before he comes back."

Meg switched to French so that she could oblige her friend to the best of her ability. "Okay, he's like-- a big deal in Korea. I'm not over-exaggerating. If anything, I'm… under-exaggerating. He's in one of those bands… those Korean boy bands. They're massive in Korea. Think like… Backstreet Boys. But bigger. That guy, with the red hair--he's another member. They're shooting a music video, here on location… and the entire corps are performing with them in one of the scenes. Only, it's super secret, and no one can know this. That's…I mean, yeah that's basically it." Meg said somewhat simply, looking taken aback at how quickly she was able to get it all out.

"But you can't tell anyone, Christine. I'm serious. I'm already breaking contract by telling you all this. Don't even tell your mom. Okay?"

Christine just nodded, pretending to lock her mouth with an imaginary key. "Um…sorry, but--why did he ask us to stay here?"

Meg's face suddenly fell, quickly going from anticipation to despair. "Oh no," she moaned quietly. "Oh no. What if he's going to get us in trouble? What if he gets their manager--or worse," she said in a strained tone, "the dance captain?"

"Honestly, Meg, I--don't think he would," Christine said, staring after Sehun dreamily. "He seemed far too nice to do that."

Meg raised an eyebrow. "Are you--? Wait, no, I could care less if you want to fuck him or not. That makes you, and like, every other straight girl in the corps. Even the boys want to fuck him. No, listen, Christine-- _why are you here?"_

Christine gasped. She had completely forgotten! "Meg, oh my God, Meg." She took her friend by her tiny pink-sleeved shoulders.

"I got booked. I'm playing a gig. Next week."

"Shut up. _Shut up._ "

Suddenly, sounds of glee erupted from both of them, and they jumped up and down slightly. Christine had always done silly things like this with Meg over phone and video cams, but this time--it was so special, for more reasons than one. She savored it, feeling Meg's loose tendrils of hair that had fallen out of her bun brush against Christine's cheek, and her crinkly tulle skirt brush against her leg. Meg was rooting for her, and she was just as happy and joyous as if she had booked the gig for herself.

"Where? Where is it?"

"Oh, the Cavern. You went with me--remember Thomas? That guy who bought us a drink after I gave him my demo?"

"Wait, not the guy who was totally into you? Gross. I didn't really like him." Meg wrinkled her nose a little.

"No, it's not like that, I swear. He listened to my stuff. He loved it. And--I'm playing next Thursday!"

"Sorry, what's next Thursday?"

They both nearly jumped out of their skins. Sehun had come up behind them while they were in their own little world. He still had a somewhat blank look on his face, but he was feeding off their positive energy, smiling as he spoke. "What's going on?"

"Oh! Er--well, I'm going to DJ at a club next week," Christine offered. "It's not a big deal, it's just--"

"Uh, no, it's a huge deal!" Meg insisted. "Sehun, Christine's a musician, and a DJ, and a producer--she's amazing. You should come by if you're still going to be in town next week. Thursday at the Cavern."

"Oh, that's wonderful, Christine, congratulations," Sehun offered, and Christine laughed a little, graciously thanking him as she tried to ignore the butterflies flying about rampantly in her chest. "That's really cool, I'm sure you're very talented."

This time, Christine really laughed, this time at herself. "I don't know about that--I mean, I wouldn't take my word for it. Maybe you'd better come by and decide for yourself." _Did I just try to flirt with a Korean celebrity? What the hell, Christine?_

"Oh! I'd love to, only--I'm not sure what my schedule's like at the moment. But if I am free that evening, I'll try to come by--The Cavern on Thursday, you said?"

Christine nodded eagerly, but then stopped herself: "Wait, but--where did you run off to?"

"Oh, I was just heading out for the day--my manager has to call a car for me when I leave."

"Well, we're going to grab something to eat, so--" Christine's voice trailed off, lilting a little. She had done this a million times before, but not with someone nearly this handsome--or this famous, come to think of it. She waited for a beat, and sure enough, he got it. Hook, line, and sinker.

"Oh, that sounds awesome, I'm starved. Can I come, too?"

Christine whipped her head around, throwing a triumphant look at Meg, who looked--unimpressed, to say the least.

"Let me just--get my things first," Meg muttered, shuffling away. "Oh, and Sorelli's coming too," Meg insisted, calling behind her. It wasn't a question, Christine thought as Meg threw an exasperated look at her boy-crazy American friend. Christine didn't care. She was in utter bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little apprehensive about if I like how I introduced Sehun here... let me know what y'all think! I promise, you'll get to see more Erik next chapter. :)
> 
> Thanks so much for waiting patiently for my updates, really, it means so much. Life is a whirlwind, in the best way possible, so please stay tuned for Chapter 7. Also, check up on the Spotify playlist link I put up on Chapter 5--I'm always updating and adding new songs to the official Neon Twilight playlist!! :D
> 
> As always, I love reading your thoughts and comments, so please leave your reactions/thoughts/opinions down below!!!!


	7. Technicolor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for hanging in there. I'm so sorry you had to wait this long!

It was about a quarter to midnight when the doorbell went off, awakening Erik from his musical hypnosis. He growled a little under his breath--he hated to be interrupted when he was composing. Never mind the fact that Isak had specified earlier that day that he'd be around just before the day was out.

Erik slowly lifted himself out of his chair, and for a few seconds, he was seeing spots. He realized he had been hunched over his computer for--maybe 20 hours straight, he guessed. Give or take a few. He stretched out his limbs a little, but didn't think much of the dull pain pulsing throughout his neck and back muscles. This was something he was used to by now. His writing streaks would last for days--weeks, sometimes.

In the dark hallway outside of his home studio, the only light was the dull blue glow from his bluetooth headphones he still had dangling around his neck. His soft sweatpants and matching slippers made a comforting, soft rustling sound as he trudged across the wood paneling.

He greeted Isak in the foyer, who silently handed over dark knapsack across the threshold. "Here are all the demos from--that hip-hop artist." It seemed fairly heavy, since he had to use two hands to carry it comfortably. This was a good sign for Erik--heavier bags meant analog material. Just as he had requested. He nodded in appreciation, taking the bag in his own hands. He turned on his heel, motioning Isak to follow him back to the studio space.

Isak trailed behind him, and shut the door quietly behind him once Erik had set down the rather cumbersome bag. Immediately, he began rifling through it, without so much as a glance up towards his visitor. Isak sighed a little--as irksome as Erik's behavior was, it was something he had grown accustomed to. No light conversation, no invitation for a drink… Sometimes, the silent was comforting, but this evening, something was on his mind. He dared to open his mouth while Erik had begun arranging all the new tapes on a table behind his main workspace. "Erik--does this mean I'm managing you again?" he asked his dear friend in a tone that sounded almost half-hearted.

Erik shrugged, not looking up. At first, he busied himself with sliding a tape onto a deck, but before he let the tape roll, he chose to speak: "Isak-- you're the only one I can trust." His voice was flat and strained. They let his sentence hang in the air for a long moment. Isak knew immediately--Erik was pretending to merely state a fact, but it was still some semblance of showing affection. This bothered Erik, but Isak, however, had to fight back a smile.

Erik chose to break the silence once more. "Besides, what else are you doing to take up your time? The management firm? You don't even take on any clients anymore."

Isak rolled his eyes. "No, Erik, but I still have to put out fires at the firm occasionally--when they need me, they need me. I can't always be at your beck and call, you know."

Erik's dark eyes bored into Isak, standing before him in neat, grey slacks with a matching vest and white button-down shirt. He looked as professional as ever, but now--he was worn around the edges. The crows' feet around his eyes hung around even after his slight smile faded. Isak had been managing him for--over ten years. Maybe closer to fifteen, he thought, feeling taken aback. But instead of verbalizing how grateful he was for his old friend--how he would never have found any success in the industry if it wasn't for him--Erik chose what he was used to: a short, curt command.

"Just--give these digital copies to Christine." He produced a tranluscent carrying case from the knapsack, which held a bunch of red and black USB thumb drives. Erik's gaze was down slightly to avoid the familiar, knowing gaze he expected as he brandished it towards Isak. "It doesn't matter if it's a CD or electronic file--just get them to her right away." Isak had a weakness--helping his friend. Especially if it came to working with a potential creative partner--something that Isak had wanted ever since he chose to represent him.

Instead, Isak just gaped at him a little. "I could send this to her in an hour, but it won't matter, Erik. She won't look at it until after her gig. You know that."

Erik began to protest nonetheless. "You need to give her as much time as possible--it's only fair."

"Producing and DJ'ing aren't the same thing." Erik scowled silently, for he knew his old manager was right. It had been one time too many that Isak had, once again, proved him wrong. "Let her focus, Erik. We can't all operate at full capacity 24/7 like you can." 

Sure enough, once Isak had left, Erik had gotten back to work. He had practically thrown the hip hop artist's bag of CD's in the corner. He'd listen to the very first song in the catalogue, and the very last song in the catalogue the night before the recording. That's what he always did for an artist he didn't particularly care for. The only reason he asked for such an extensive collection was for Christine-- the more she had to work with, the better chance she could come in with some fresh ideas for this hip-hop artist. The last thing Erik wanted was for her to come up empty-handed -- not just because he wanted her to succeed, but also because he didn't want to risk losing any credibility by bringing in someone who was about as useless as a coffee runner. While he wasn't too worried that would happen, there was still some element if risk involved, and occasionally it would flicker in his mind's eye. The reason he'd never worked with anyone before was because the risk always outweighed the chance for reward -- but for some reason, it didn't seem as great this time. It didn't stop him from working until he couldn't see straight; he had begun hashing out ideas that had merely been a spark in his head when he first heard Christine's demo mix. At least he had a reason to be a shut-in now, he would just tell Isak he was busy preparing for the recording session. 

For the first time in almost a week, however, he was away from his in-home studio. But for good reason: tonight was Thursday night at Le Cavern. 

He made sure not to get there too early because he had no idea how Christine had planned to schedule her move-in, set-up, and sound check beforehand. If she bothered with any of those things, Erik had thought. Though it was his first instinct was to find out everything he could about what he would expect from Christine that night--he had to hold himself back.

Yes, the less he knew, the better. In fact, he had come to the decision that he wouldn't even be watching her during the set--at least, not at first. He was facing Thomas at the bar--sitting with his back turned to her setup. He wanted to only focus on the sound, with no distractions. In truth, he knew that Christine herself would be the main distraction. The little sleep he found over the past week was filled with dreams about her--about how she performed, how she sang, if she gyrated her body along to the music as she spun a new record on her turntable--

Stop thinking about her, he chastised himself silently. After waving down Thomas for a gin and tonic, he distracted himself from his own thoughts by surveying the bodies hovering around the bar. This was a decidedly different vantage point than when he was performing onstage--offering the complete opposite view of what he was accustomed to behind the turntables. When he came through the front entrance --something he hadn't done in years -- Erik's typical station only looked like a stack of nondescript black bricks from this far away. Not to mention he was sitting closer to the general public than he ever preferred. He tried to loosen up a bit, shaking his shoulders a little and exhaling a breath he realized he had been holding in for quite some time. He tried to calm himself down: There was nothing he had to lose, he thought. He had had the majority of his equipment was taken off of the set up; beyond the powerful sound system, Christine did not have that much to work with. If nothing else, Erik was relieved she couldn't delete any of his programed loops or melodies since he had extricated the Voyager or Juno--his prized synthesizers and modulars were safely locked away in Thomas's office.

What if she was terrible? What if she just… played tracks one after the other? Erik's anxiety tried to get the better of him, but after a couple of drinks, he was able to keep that in check. After all, if she was terrible--she was terrible. No harm done, right? Never mind the fact that he had begun composing tracks only for her, because of her, imaging how her music and ideas would fit in with his--

Thankfully, his wretched train of thought was broken. Normally, Erik would simmer at this young girl's loud French carrying over to his dark corner of the bar, but it was better than being tormented by his own thoughts.

"--Remember, she told us not to do anything embarrassing. I'll be honest, I don’t know what that means, but I still really want to cheer for her!"

A deeper voice responded, another girl's--it drawled a bit more than the first, her natural French accent resonating beautifully in her throat: "I think Christine just wants us to react naturally, that's all. Don't cheer for every little thing, babe. She wants to have as unbiased of a reaction as possible."

The deeper voice fell into the white noise of the crowd a bit, not carrying across the room as easily as the first voice, but Erik's ears perked up as soon as he heard her name, and he strained to make out the rest. He scanned the small crowd that had begun to form beyond the bar and towards the dance floor. Even if he could find who the voices belonged to, it was harder to lip-read in this environment, especially because of the poor lighting around the bar. Of course the bar would be the worst lit, he thought bemusedly to himself. All the better to fall for someone whose face you can't make out very well--

"Sorelli," the higher pitched voice whined. Her voice had gone up a few octaves, and this was Erik's chance to find the source. Sure enough, there they were, on the outskirts of the crowd. "I want to get closer." The wheedling girl had shockingly platinum-blonde hair, and not much clothing on besides a stark-white mini halter dress that contrasted well with her tan, olive-toned skin. Even though she was wearing platform heels, her partner--Sorelli--still towered almost a full head over her.

"Meg, sweetie, we're still waiting for Sehun and Chanyeol," Sorelli reminded her. Erik marveled at Sorelli: she was truly a unique beauty, not like anyone he had seen in awhile. Most girls at the clubs dressed like Meg, but Sorelli clearly had a mind of her own when it came to her fashion. It reminded him of how Christine dressed--perhaps not the same style, but just as effortless: she had on a faded green camouflage t-shirt that was tucked into a pair of worn, ripped jeans, paired with tattered combat boots. But it was her hair that pulled the whole look together--she had beautiful, jet-black dreadlocks cascading down her back. A few of them were pulled back to keep away from her face, but the majority of her hair was flying free, and every time she tossed her head at Meg, they moved with such effortless grace. 

"Have you texted them yet? I hope they're not lost--or worse, I hope the paparazzi didn't find them," Meg groaned a little, like the thought had just occurred to her. It appeared that Meg didn't have much of a filter between her brain and her mouth. Nonetheless, Erik tried to keep up, desperately hanging on to her every word, carefully ensuring that he memorized every sentence so that he could pick apart what she was talking about at a later time. "Can you just text them, and ask--"

Suddenly, to everyone's surprise, the otherwise boring, generic dance club track playing had quickly faded out, and was replaced with a triumphant chord progression on guitar in a major key. 

"Oh my god, oh my god," Meg shouted at Sorelli, making sure she was still heard despite the music blaring. She craned her head to look for a glimpse of Christine. Erik didn't follow her line of sight, though; he remembered the silent pact he had made with himself earlier. Don't make it about anything more than the music. 

The repeating chord progression quickly fell into a groovy rhythm guitar riff with some smooth percussion alongside. It was a comfortable song--not that it was a lazy choice, it just felt--welcoming. It was a smart way to transition from the generic, watered-down backbeat. Erik wasn't the only one that felt this way, for a few of the patrons were nodding their heads pleasantly along to the beat. A few even whooped, for many of them quickly recognized the song when the vocorded singing came in.

Meg immediately whooped when she saw her friend, but Sorelli quickly shushed her. "But of course, she would play Daft Punk as her first song," Meg shouted up at Sorelli, rolling her eyes a little. Sorelli didn't respond, only swaying her hips a little, silently encouraging Meg to stop talking and enjoy the music. Erik silently approved--so far, so good. The first song is always difficult, he thought to himself. You had to catch their attention, of course, but the song selection could not be too jarring or hard-hitting. She chose a well-known, French duo, but not the song one would normally expect to hear by them at a club. This wasn't a hit single or a rock-heavy track--it was a throwback to funk and the early days of disco. It put everyone at ease, but it also didn't put everyone to sleep. It wasn't boring. It was actually--quite good, Erik allowed.

As the track progressed, he scanned his eyes past Meg and Sorelli, who had started a chain reaction that Erik always saw on the dance floor: as soon as a good-looking pair ventured their way onto the dance floor, everyone surrounding the dance floor a few moments later seemed to find the courage to dance, too.

Erik's eyes slowly trained across the club and closer to the bar. He found someone he had expected, but it still was a surprise to see him nonetheless: Isak. It looked like he had just walked in, because he was only a few feet away from the front door, and he was leaning over the bar, waiting for his drink he had just ordered. He had probably spotted Erik already, because he seemed preoccupied with watching Christine at the front of the dancefloor. He had a hint of a smile on his face--Erik would have bet money that Isak had been thinking the exact same thing he was. Isak found a barstool after he ordered, and sat down, happily sipping his drink and taking in Christine's set, conveniently ignoring Erik. Rightly so, too: Erik had given Isak a rather stern warning not to approach him in any way at the bar that evening--however unlikely it may be that Christine would see Isak from that far away, he did not want to be anywhere near her line of sight given the small chance that it could happen.

The song had transitioned into another French house piece, but this time it was an older track from the late 90s. Once again, a significant majority of the crowd on the dance floor whooped--this was a classic house track, and it didn't feel out of place. It had a similar BPM to her opening track, except it had a slightly harder hitting bass line this time. She was slowly but surely carving her way onto the dancefloor.

Erik was itching to look over his shoulder, but he stayed hunched over, peering over the bar and intently studying the different types of distilled liquors across from him. Thomas was manning the bar, pouring drinks enthusiastically, and occasionally he'd flick his gaze over to Erik, if only just to check if he needed his drink refilled-- but even Thomas couldn't help but glance up at Christine, nodding his head in approval when he realized the track she had picked. Without having to turn around, Erik could feel it--all eyes were on her. If patrons weren't looking at the newly formed crowd, their eyes were on Christine. Erik began to realize that he would start to stand out like a sore thumb if he didn't at least mimic the direction everyone was headed towards. He decided to scan the crowd instead, not for Christine, but for her two friends who had come out to support her. This time, it was harder to find them--possibly because there were more people now, possibly because they moved closer, to get a better view of Christine like little Meg had wanted--

Not so, Erik found quickly. A few bodies shifted, and the bright white fabric of Meg's dressed flashed, easily contrasting against the dark clothing of the two young men that literally towered over her. They were talking louder now, perhaps because the crowd was getting louder, or because they slowly began to realize that no one could understand them--or so they thought. Erik's Korean was a little rusty, granted--but he was able to make out the general idea.

"Chanyeol, shut up." The taller one elbowed the shorter one, who only elbowed him back--something like a younger brother would do, smiling wide and waggling his eyebrows.

"You're such a pussy when it comes to girls, man. Just tell her."

"Oh, okay, sure. What would I say? 'Hey, Christine, I went to high school with you for one year, and I had a huge thing for you, so date me?' Yeah, like that's not going to creep her out."

"Sehun, it's so obvious. You guys both like each other, but if neither of you work up the courage--it's not going to happen."

Sehun threw his head back, sighing in despair. He ran his hand through his hair and threw a helpless look at his younger cohort. "Dude, I--I don't know. I need to think about it. But even if I did--what if we got caught?"  
�"That's where things get even more interesting--you have to be creative. It'll be like Romeo and Juliet--damn, that's hot--forbidden love, you know?" Chanyeol gave another eyebrow-waggle. "Come on, we were able to get away from our bodyguards tonight, and we're hanging out with girls. No one has the slightest idea of where we are. We've pulled it off once, we can do it again. And again. And again…"

"Chanyeol, do me a favor. Shut up and let me enjoy the rest of the show."

Sehun smiled his crooked smile despite his perfect, porcelain, symmetrical face. Erik hadn't wanted to punch a complete stranger square in the jaw in a long time.

====x======

"Get me a double whiskey and coke."

Thomas looked up, and his brow furrowed for a second. But when he saw the navy-blue hood raised up over her had and her black bangs poking out, he went pale as a sheet.

"Uh… Uhm." Instead of stringing together a complete sentence, he turned around and busied himself with fulfilling Christine's request.

"Thomas." She spoke loudly. "Thomas--I need help. I'm--I’m losing them."

"What? What are you talking about? You're doing fine," he managed to stutter out. Her face grew hot with shame. He had the balls to lie to her. She threw an exasperated look at her audience--no one was dancing anymore. Sure, people were talking enthusiastically, waving around drinks and laughing, but she had lost them several songs ago. She had faded into the background. That's almost worse than being booed off, she thought to herself.

"I don't--I don't know if I should. I have a fail-safe, but--I don't know if it'll work."

"Well, what the fuck are you doing here? Get back up to your station!" Thomas half-joked with her. "Seriously--I know you don't think you can do it, but-- just try not to think about them. I mean, don't fuck it up. You know? I've heard you, I know you're the shit, okay?"

"Just give me the drink, Thomas." She downed it in a few gulps, and with the liquid courage inside her, she turned to march back off to her controls. Before she did, someone in a baseball cap and glasses almost ran into her--running off towards the bathrooms, it seemed. She rolled her eyes. People were starting to drink too much. She needed to get their attention--it was now or never.

The music faded out. People started to turn towards her, a few shouting angrily. She had to act as quickly as possible. She grabbed the mic she had hooked up earlier--she didn't think she was going to use it; thank goodness she had the foresight to install it. She turned up the line-in volume on the mic track. 

"Hello, I'm Morgon. Tonight you get both a DJ and pop singer."

She started a simple synth track, programmed into her midi. Waiting only two or three measures before she started the first verse.

"I see every shade of red inside  
Blue and green, your purples got me running wild

A second track launched--a simple, percussive bassline to get them to dance.

"Soaked in every color, eyes so bright  
Awakening my senses, I can't even hide"

She changed the progression in a flash for the hook.

"I know, I know, I know, I know  
Deep down inside your heart  
I see, I see, I see, I see  
My one and only dream…  
Let's just lay down it all  
I cannot hide  
Why did I even try?

As she crescendoed, the music matched it. But then it all stopped, echoing in the air--her voice was the only thing they could hear despite a quiet synth letting her do all the work. She closed her eyes while she let everything go--she was throwing her heart on the dance floor.

"Cause I just wanna free somebody  
Let's tell everybody  
Tonight, no, I just can't deny it  
Let's let love decide it, oh yeah

Then the beat dropped again, and this time Christine dared to open her eyes. People were cheering, applauding. Some were enraptured--they couldn’t believe that that tiny girl could sing that powerfully. Others who had had quite enough to drink were losing all abandon, gyrating to Christine's infectious bassline. Her bassline. Her song.

Christine had to put down the microphone, and leaned down a little to laugh to herself. This was it. This was what it felt like. She was so excited she had to let off steam by vocalizing into the mic as she led into the second verse. Then the chorus once again--this time, she didn't hold back. She sang it all out. Every anxiety, every panicked breath--she let it all go. It was ecstasy.

"I wanna free somebody!"

She wasn't even paying attention to her launch pad anymore. It didn't matter. The crowd was roaring, and the music was ringing in her ears--the bass was still pumping. That's all everyone needed.

====x=====

Erik's heart was pounding. She had no idea. The crowd had roped her in. That, plus the double whiskey she'd had earlier--

At first, he was afraid she had caught on, because she had stopped paying attention to her set-up so quickly. In fact, Erik had only set up his Juno because he was going to cover Christine--the poor thing was getting too deep inside her head, second-guessing every song choice. Her set had become aimless and wandering.

But when she opened her mouth to sing, everything changed.

How he had underestimated her! He was waiting in Thomas's office with his prized Juno synthesizer remotely connected to the stereo system. When he caught on to the chord progression, though, Erik set up a 303 at lightning speed to add in percussion to round out the heavy bass Christine had programmed into her launch pad. Her instrumental only seemed so mediocre because she had put everything in the songwriting. No, the lyrics weren't the most moving, but it didn't matter--what mattered is that she felt them--deep in her heart. That much he could tell. In a matter of seconds-- he was making music with her--with her voice. It was like nothing he'd ever experienced in his life. Her unbridled passion mixed with Erik's ear for finding the perfect synth accompaniment--it was magic.

The melody was the sound of her heartbeat, and the drums were his--beating only for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheesy rite? Let me know by leaving a comment. :P I promise, I'll come back and edit any typos later, but for now I wanted y'all to have this ASAP. Love you guys. <3


	8. Face to Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys... here it is, finally. I'm so sorry it took this long! I had a lot of trouble getting through this chapter, and even though it's far from perfect, I wanted you guys to have a bit of Neon Twilight since you've all been so patient! Thanks for bearing with me.

"What's so funny?"

Christine felt a hand rest lightly on her shoulder. She jumped about a mile in the air before whirling around to find out who the man speaking was. She should have known: It was the hip-hop artist who she had been working with non-stop for the past few days—Paul. With his lanky frame towering above her, he had a goofy grin stretched across his face, and despite his deep-set eyes, they sparkled with charm. He said something again, with the same grin, but this time Christine couldn't hear him—the chorus in her ear buds were drowning him out. 

After yanking out her small, rubber-tipped buds, he politely repeated himself. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you." 

"Oh, don't worry," Christine said, her French sounding a bit breathless. She laughed a little, and he graciously emulated. "I'm sorry," she continued, "I thought you were --"

"Thought I was who?" A different accent poked through his French, Christine thought as one of his dark eyebrows raised questioning her silently.

"I—I don't know. I knew you were coming, but—I thought someone else—" she stopped herself. "I don't know why I just said that," she admitted with candor. Her brow furrowed a little as she stood staring off into the distance of the waiting room, past his shoulder. 

"No, I know what you mean," he offered. "I thought the--well, the producer would be seeing us finally, no?"

"Yeah," Christine eyes brightened, feeling relieved that he felt the same way. "But, now that I think about it, he-- he never actually said he'd come. Right?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps, but..." He trailed off, both falling silent for a moment. Before things got too awkward again, the hip hop artist turned back to catch Christine's gaze again. 

As Christine opened her mouth to speak, a strange chime emitted from the far end of the waiting room. They both turned on their heels, expecting the mysterious third person who may or may not exist, when a cool, electronic voice sounded from what should have been the reception desk:

"Christine Daae. Paul Janssens. Please make your way to Studio A3. Thank you and have a pleasant recording session."

Paul shrugged. "Can't say I've ever seen anything like this before, but I guess we'd better go." He motioned towards Christine to follow, and they began making their way across the waiting room. With his back turned to Christine, he started rummaging around in his messenger bag—the one he always carried around, fitting around the curve of his shoulder and back perfectly. He unzipped a compartment without even looking back at his pack, like a well-oiled machine, while Christine quickened her short steps to match Paul's long, even strides. In a manner of seconds, he had produced two cold glass bottles and tossed one to Christine, and she caught it swiftly.

"Aw man, no caffeine?" She said, looking forlornly at the water.

"Yes, well, this won't stain anything. I knew this place was going to have expensive carpeting. Also, that's the first rule of vocal training, I thought—caffeine will ruin your voice."

"I guess. But, you're right—I didn't expect this place to be so..." Christine's voice trailed off. They both knew what she meant. It was like a cross between a modern art museum and a luxury spa. Clean, modern, and almost all white, but the lighting was dim, and Christine oddly felt at ease as she walked behind Paul. Maybe there was some kind of low ambient noise playing quietly on the PA system, she thought to herself.

"Yeah--this is definitely different from when we were just jamming in your home studio."

"Different? That's an understatement," Paul muttered, craning his neck to take in all the expensive-looking architecture. "You know when it's this minimalist and sleek--this studio probably cost thousands just to record in for a few hours. Maybe more."

As Paul shuffled to the glass double doors beyond the reception desk, Christine busied herself with wrapping up her headphone cords as she followed him. It was a force of habit--before they would start their sessions she always liked to loosen up a little bit with her music. Some days it was inspiration; other days it was a distraction--like today. Ceremoniously, she wrapped them up and placed them with care in her pocket. Paul couldn't help but notice when he held the door open for her.

"So, what was so funny—before I scared the shit out of you, anyway?"

Christine gave Paul a blank stare, but after a moment, it clicked: she finally remembered what she had been so engrossed in. "I had just decided to put my songs on shuffle, and of all songs—" with a couple taps on her touchscreen phone, she turned the screen so that the blue glow reflected off of his dark skin as he squinted to read the song title. 

He suddenly laughed aloud. "Of all songs, yes."

"D'you think it's gonna work?"

Paul just stared at her for a moment. "After all this time--you're second guessing this now?"

Christine threw him a helpless look. "Oh, fuck. I'm sorry, I'm just really nervous."

"Look, remember what we talked about when we first met? You told me you wanted to make unexpected electronic music. And I told you I hated the phrase 'EDM,' right?"

"Well, is this even--?"

"Christine, everything's electronic these days. You can make the argument that electronic music and pop music genres have become interchangeable. Everything's begun to sound the same. You told me that earlier, too."

"But this is so different--you think it's too different?"

Paul shrugged as the arrived at the doors to Studio A3. A dim spotlight illuminated the plaque that bore the room number, shining with a harsh, fluorescent light, creating an oddly foreboding mood.

"Let's find out."

Paul reached out with his long, sinewy arms, and pushed open the double doors--unsurprisingly, they looked enormously heavy, but all the better to soundproof the room, Christie thought. She stopped, hesitating to cross the threshold at first. But then, the studio revealed itself--and her jaw dropped.

"What the fuck," Christine said in English hollowly.

Paul laughed, but not his usual, hearty laugh. It was a nervous laugh--they were both positively overwhelmed at all the equipment. For starters, there was an entire wall of equipment propped up on racks--sequencers, amps, drum machines, microphones--there were plenty of real instruments to choose from, but Christine only glossed over them. There was some equipment on those racks she had only looked at longingly in YouTube videos or in old photos--she never thought she'd be able to actually see them, let alone touch them in the flesh. A good handful of them weren't even in production anymore--they were often priced a thousands of dollars for resale. She wanted to pull every single one out of the rack and just---hold them. Just feel them and hear what they sound like in all their analog glory. The smile Christine tried to fight back cracked through her lips--

"--getting all set up. Uh, Christine? Hello?"

Christine turned around a little with the intention to face Paul, but before her gaze could even land on his, it locked onto the wall behind him, revealing even more equipment. She gave an audible gasp.

"What? What's wrong?"

"No—look! Behind you," Christine managed to choke out. "It's just—it's so beautiful."

"What is all this, anyway? This seems a bit—excessive, wouldn't you say?"

Christine shook her head, giving Paul a rather stupid smile. "No. Not if you know what to do with it."

Paul raised an eyebrow. "So you're saying you'd know what to do"—he gave a grand sweeping gesture at the wall of knobs and dials—"with all this?"

She shrugged, this time her tone a little more sheepish than before. "I—I guess I could, in theory," she allowed. "But I've only ever read instruction manuals and videos from online. Then I've downloaded software that tries to act like a virtual clone of the analog. I've never actually been able to afford anything even close to this," she finally admitted. "Even a fraction of this could cost--" she shook her head a little, daring to take a guess. "--Forty thousand? Maybe more?"

Paul gave a low whistle. "So... This is the shit."

"Yeah. The ultimate." They took a moment of revered silence before Christine found enough words to speak again. "Even if I had had decades' worth of hands-on experience with mod synths, if I so much as thought about touching this set-up—it would be pretty horrible of me. It's like—messing with the presets on someone else's car radio---but a hundred times worse."

"I wouldn't know; I don't have a car," Paul deadpanned.

As they burst into a fit of nervous giggles, the enormous double doors lurched open, making them suddenly grow very quiet. They both held their breaths in anticipation, for it took several seconds to reveal their new guest—none other than Isak, clad in a ragged t-shirt and jeans. It took her a second to recognize him, considering it was not at all what Christine was used to seeing him in—even at the Cavern a couple of weeks ago, he had dressed rather dapper for such a seedy little dive bar.

"Isak!" Christine couldn't help but express her relief. "You didn't say you'd be coming."

"Did I? I thought I did," he said, giving his usual warm smile. "In any case, I'm here to be—well, to serve as a mediator, I suppose."

Christine and Paul both exchanged looks. They knew who Isak was referring to, but not his identity-- they had been discussing at great lengths who this anonymous producer would be during their downtime in the studio. It had to be someone they knew; someone well-known in the industry—why would they be keeping it a secret?

"I trust Isak," Christine had told Paul flat-out after a late night writing session. "I've only known the guy for barely a month, but--I've done my research. His credentials check out, he doesn't have any dirt—at least, not that the internet knows of." He's also using a buffer for the first official session—multiple buffers, including himself now, Christine thought. If Isak asked her to meet this producer alone, with no other people present, Christine would not have accepted. Period. But with Isak and Paul here, she felt much more at ease.

Paul was absolutely harmless, she had come to find over the past few days. Though shy at first, with Christine's charm, she had managed to find that he was a tender soul; something she hadn't expected at all from a hip-hop artist. It worked to their advantage, though—they had managed to crank out five songs in less than 2 weeks. Some were silly and tongue-in-cheek; others brooding ballads. They wanted a variety for the producer when they walked in today.

"He could literally be anyone," Paul had insisted over and over again. "I don't want to pretend to be something I'm not, but I also don't want to have each song sound exactly the same, you know?"

"I wonder if they—" Christine had thrown him an accusing look, and Paul chuckled nervously at his own expense for assuming their gender. "I wonder if they do this with every artist," she had mused aloud. "Maybe the anonymity makes everyone so hyped up into thinking it's someone amazing, and so they all bring their A-game."

"It's clever, I'll give them that," Paul had said, sighing loudly as he scratched his head thoughtfully. Though they had gone over and over this topic, time and time again—they couldn't help but make guesses. 

And now, on the brink of discovery, they were practically vibrating with excitement as they began to set up their equipment. Well, it was mostly Christine setting up; at the very most, she would instruct the (much taller) Paul what pieces of equipment to pull off the higher-tiered racks, and she began to connect them very carefully and deliberately. Her heart was in her mouth, beating so fast that it threatened to leap right out of her throat and come out, spilling all over one of the expensive amps. Her excitement was turning into panic. She threw a pleading look at Paul, who was warming up, singing along to some demos in his earphones. He didn't notice her.

"Christine?" She jumped at Isak's voice calling her name over a PA. Looking up, she realized he was no longer in the room with them--not technically, anyway: He had gone into the master control room, where the mixing board and controls were all located. That room was separated by a soundproof one-way mirror--but with the floodlights on inside the control room, it was effectively a two-way mirror for the time being. He leaned over the controls, pressing a button before speaking. "Christine, Paul--feel free to come in here if you'd like to--well, to connect everything," he trailed off a little, shrugging. "I'm afraid I'm not much of a help--I'm a bit technologically challenged-- but I'll do my best."

Her eyes grew wide, and she looked down at her midi dumbly. "I--okay," she stuttered. She grew hot, feeling Paul's eyes bore into her. She'd been in a few home studios, like Paul's, but never one as huge and--well, as intimidating as this one. The control room looked utterly frightening, she thought with dread-- what if she made a fool of herself just trying to plug in her midi?

"Come on, I'll help you," Paul's voice said quietly. Christine said nothing--she was far too scared--but she tried to thank him with a single look. He just smiled and nodded. He was surprisingly calm compared to her--What a mess, she thought to herself. Get it together, Christine. You can do this. You've got this.

They both used the small door to the left--propped open by Isak--to enter the control room. Christine practically froze; all she could manage to do was hand over her laptop and midi. Paul took the wheel; he started explaining Isak the basic idea behind the track.

"It's pretty bare bones; we only have, like, three tracks as the skeleton of the main song we wanted to get to work on today--if you don't count my vocals." He threw a glance at Christine, hoping that she would take the lead before he busied himself with the laptop.

After a moment, she finally managed to find her voice--but she spoke down to the controls, not to Isak. "For this song, we sampled Carmen--Bizet's Carmen. And we made it really hip-hop and techno while still keeping it clean and relatively minimalist-- Oh, and Paul wrote these really great lyrics that parody the original Habanera aria--L'amour est un oiseau rebelle." She looked at Paul, who gave Isak a nod in agreement. Isak's brow furrowed, no longer looking at either of the two artists. He got the same faraway look the time they were at the café, she thought. But that made it easier for her to keep talking.

"We wanted to kind of--make fun of the hashtag culture," she continued. "It's all so fake, and it's just pixels--but people's lives get thrown away just for the sake of Internet fame. We want to make a statement, but we wanted to use a recognizable melody for people to latch on to it--and we wanted to make it catchy so that it didn't seem too--well, too preachy."

A moment of silence fell between the three of them. Christine and Paul gave each other knowing looks--Did Isak hate the idea? Why was he being so quiet?

Paul cleared his throat loudly. "Uh, it's all set up--Christine," he handed her a pair of studio headphones. "If you want to mess with the levels before we start."

"Yeah--yeah, thanks." She took the headphones, effectively ignoring Isak's reaction--or lack thereof. Her and Paul switched positions, he stood up to stand next to Isak while Christine sat down in front of the controls. She saw a blinking button flashing on her laptop--Paul managed to sync her electronic tracks onto the analog soundboard. How he did--well, she'd worry about that later. Perhaps when the feeling of a panic attack coming on subsided. She hunched down over her computer, playing the first few seconds of the track on her headphones. It started blaring, and she immediately cranked down the volume, praying that Isak didn't hear it.

Christine could hear Paul adjusting the mic, his headphones, and the surrounding equipment to his liking as she focused on readying the volume levels. She had to admit, it felt wonderful to be able to adjust the frequencies and levels on the analog soundboard. They all glided up and down so smoothly, she marveled to herself.

"Isak?" This time Christine was calling him for his attention. Looking over, he was putting his phone away--he looked rather sheepish, too--embarrassed that he had been caught in the act. 

"Yes, let's--let's get started."

Christine nodded at Paul. "Ready?"

Paul gave a thumbs-up as he finished propping up his electronic tablet in front of him. Christine knew his lyrics were scribbled down on there; he never went anywhere without it.

She leaned in to the PA mic and hit a button. Her voice spilled from the control room into the studio. "Okay. Paul, I'm going to loop the intro for a few measures longer than usual. Take your time going into it; I'll just follow along." Silence. Paul just fixated on his tablet, giving an ever so slight nod.

"Er--Carmen, take one," Christine sputtered out, after hitting another button on the mixing table. 

\---------x---------

"What time is it?"

"It's not even six o'clock, Isak."

"Well, there aren't any windows. You completely lose track of time in here."

"That's kind of the point, my friend." Silence. "That's what I love best about working here, truthfully speaking. There are no distractions. Hours can pass, days can go by-- but it doesn't matter. The whole world can drift past us, and it won't change what happens in here."

"Sounds pretty terrible."

"For you, maybe." The voice sighed, so the speakers crackled a little. Another pause. Isak didn't even have to say anything to prompt the voice to continue. "I let her go because her job was done today. She doesn't need to work on this track anymore--it's in Paul's hands now. And ours."

Erik was right. Christine had come so prepared, she was just sitting back in the studio for most of the session, hitting buttons here and there to queue up the instrumentals if Paul wanted to re-record parts or do some improvisations. She was enthusiastic, to be sure, giving Paul just the right amount of encouragement, but she really didn't need to be there in the studio. 

"I was expecting her to sing," Isak admitted. "Why didn't she?"

"No, this wasn't about singing. Not yet, anyway," Erik allowed. "She proved she could hold her own on this track. I know that Paul didn't carry her in this. If I were to guess, she did most of the producing and composing. If not all of it. And Paul did the lyrics. But she listened to his past demos. She learned his style and musical preferences. She did her research, and it shows."

"And so instead of patting her on the back and giving a 'job well done' speech, you had me all but kick her out of the studio?"

"It's my turn now, Isak. I have to prove to her that this is worth her time. She doesn't completely trust us yet, so now we have to deliver."

"And how do you propose we do that?" Isak ran a hand through his hair, throwing an exasperated look at the speakers that contained Erik's voice.

"We get this song on the radio. We make Paul an instant hit."

"Okay, sounds great," Isak snorted. "It'll be a piece of cake, considering neither you nor I know any deejays in radio that aren't long since retired."

"Isak, now you're really showing your age." Erik couldn't help but give a small laugh. "That's not how promotion works anymore. We make this go viral--produce a video, put the song on every possible streaming websites, push it to the top of the page--"

"Yeah, sounds easy." Isak's tone hadn't changed.

"It might take some time, but in the meantime, let's finish this track. Paul may have to come in and record some more, but that won't take long at all. I'll master it and have a final version ready by the end of the month. Then we'll bring in the two of them to sign some contracts."

"And then what? What about the whole reason why we had them record in the first place?" Isak didn’t even need to say her name.

"Isak, that's not a top priority right now. We need to start pulling a creative team together, an art director, a stylist for Paul--"

Isak closed his eyes, passing a hand over his face. Erik either truly did not have a plan, or he was hiding something from him. Most likely the latter. 

"Don't leave me in the dark, Erik. I'll help you, but not blindly."

The white noise of the connected phone line cut off. True silence.

\-------x--------

"Guys, she's here!" A familiar voice rang from the front hall, causing a small uproar in the foyer.

Christine gave a start, looking around wildly as she stood on the threshold of the front door to her apartment, before training her eyes on her roommate. "What--what's going on?" she asked Meg.

"We're celebrating, of course!" Meg raised a plastic cup, giving a loud whoop. A few people echoed her with enthusiasm. After she took a sip of her mysterious drink, she squealed a little, jumping up and down. "So, how did it go? You killed it today, right?" 

"Uh, yeah--I think so?" Christine tried to match her roommate, forcing a smile. Meg's face fell a little--Christine's tired eyes still showed through her feigned countenance.

"Oh, Christine. Come on, let's go have some vodka Red Bull, that'll help you wake up--"

"Meg, I don't think I should--"

"Normally, Christine, I'd let you slide, but someone special might be coming," Meg said in a sing-song voice. "Well, I mean, I invited him on Facebook. He didn't say if he was coming or not, but I know he definitely saw the invite! So, it's definitely very possible--he'll come," Meg said, confusing herself with her own sentence.

Christine's heart picked up a little. "Sehun?" She tried to sound casual--but unsuccessfully.

"Yeah, Sehun, who else?" Meg said offhand. She had been dragging Christine to the kitchen all the while, which normally would have taken but a moment, but there were quite a number of bodies gathered in their main living area, blocking the usual path. Christine looked about, quickly seeing if Sehun had magically materialized while neither of them were looking. Instead, she saw mostly strangers, but she did recognize a few of their guests, giving a polite wave as she had passed by. Most of them were in the ballet with Meg, but a handful of others looked a bit too alternative for the corps--that is, these people would certainly fail to pass the strict no-tattoo rule that Meg was always whining about to Christine and Sorelli. Just as she thought about Meg's girlfriend, she emerged from a dim corner of the living room to join them, giving Christine a friendly nod. 

"Hey, Christine. How was it? When are we going to hear you on the radio?" Sorelli gave a sly smile, and Christine blushed a little, only shrugging.

"It wasn't what I expected," Christine admitted. "But it went as well as it could have gone--I think. Paul and I came up with some pretty cool stuff, anyway."

Meg shoved a cup into Christine's hands, filled with a diluted brownish-yellow fluid. The very smell of it made Christine shudder a little. "Come on, drink up! He could be here any minute," she insisted.

"Uh--can I at least go put my bag away first?" Christine pleaded softly. 

"Meg, let her breathe for a minute, would you?" Sorelli grabbed Meg by the waist to pull her out of the kitchen as she gave Christine a surreptitious wink over Meg's head.

"Ugh, fine!" Meg exclaimed. Despite her tone, she couldn't resist Sorelli's pull into the fray. She clung on, calling over her shoulder to Christine: "Hurry up and get back in here when you're done!"

Thankfully, most of the party had stayed towards the front of the apartment; so Christine was able to edge away and retreat to her room. In a range of rehearsed movements--she had done it every single day for the past couple of weeks-- Christine placed her bag handle on the doorknob, kicked off her shoes, and flopped on the bed. She lay horizontal for a minute, staring out her bedroom window as she took in the background sounds of the party down the narrow hall. A thumping bass matched the dull, roaring melody of voices.

She immediately sat up. Through the doorway, she could see that Meg's bedroom door was open. Dusk was illuminating Meg's room beautifully, and inexplicably, Christine experienced a sudden yearning to see it. Despite her back aching from sitting hours in the studio, she rose swiftly to walk toward Meg's room--specifically, to Meg's bedroom window that led to the balcony.

Swiftly and quietly, Christine had clambered out onto the tiny balcony. Meg liked to leave it cracked open the tiniest bit to let the fall breeze in, especially since the past few days had been such perfect weather--cool and clear and crisp. Meg had thrown a few plush cushions on the raised ledge of the balcony, and so Christine curled up on one, leaning one of her arms on the railing as her gaze trailed over the city.

The wind ruffled Christine's bangs, and she inhaled deeply. She marveled at the brilliant colors of the sunset, the beautiful pinks and oranges that illuminated the tops of the buildings. But something else was tugging at the back of her mind.

She wasn't entirely sure how she felt about the recording session, she thought, her mind wandering back to Sorelli and Meg's eager questions. It was like she wasn't even there. It felt like she was just going through some motions she had rehearsed for the past week. Was she really doing her best to show what her true talents were? Or was she letting Paul do all the work?

She bowed her head, finally closing her eyes as she tried to fight back the tears that had begun to well up. Though she had one of the most exciting opportunities that Paris could have offered her--it didn't feel exciting. It felt disappointing. Why did it feel disappointing? What did she do wrong?

Why did she feel so lost?

Christine, in an effort to swallow the sobs that were threatening to erupt from her lips, began to hum. She hummed an old lullaby--something that she hadn't sung in ages. Something her father had taught her when she was little. It was an old lullaby of the Northern islands where her father's father hailed from--a song of faraway land that brought her back to a faraway time.

Though sometimes the melody saddened her, this time it oddly helped. She imagined singing it with her father, with his beautiful, gravelly voice that sounded like home. Memories of him used to spiral her into depression and sadness years ago, but this time it comforted her--if only a little. She clung onto the few vivid memories of him as best as she could.

"Christine."

Her head whipped around, immediately recognizing that soft, deep voice with a slight American accent--Sehun. His tall, lanky form filled the entire windowsill. She gasped a little.

The only words Christine could manage to form were awkward and mumbling. "Uh--hey. Hi." Her mouth hung agape while Sehun looked rather embarrassed himself.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have--do you want me to leave? I'm sorry," Sehun said as his straight, dark brows began to wrinkle with concern.

"No, I--it's okay," Christine managed to sputter out. "I would offer you to join me, but-- can you fit?"

Sehun's look of surprise became tinged with a smile as he fought back a chuckle. "Promise not to laugh at me?" He bent lower to prepare fitting through the window. Christine didn't realize how tiny the window really was up until now--both her and Meg slid through with ease, but that was only because they were well under six feet tall.

"You can do it," Christine clapped a little, cheering him on as he gallantly, awkwardly, took both long, slender legs to slide through the window. She fought back laughter, whooping softly as he completed his feat. Sehun bowed a little to acknowledge his tiny audience of one.

"I should be applauding you--that's such a beautiful song. What was that one about again?"

Christine looked at Sehun with wide eyes. Her heart was hammering outside of her chest, but she didn't dare speak.

"Christine, you really don't remember me?"

"I--I don't know." Christine looked away, trying to catch the last moments of daylight.

"You sang that song for Culture Day, in the auditorium with your dad playing--I forget. Was it the drums? Some kind of percussion, right?"

"Yeah, it was this wide, shallow drum." Christine couldn't look at him, but she felt brave enough to speak somehow. "How did you know it was me?"

"Because I had a big, fat crush on you when I was little. And, I mean-- I never forget a face." Sehun said all of this completely deadpan. Christine only knew this because she finally turned to face him--she couldn't believe her ears. Sehun's dark grey eyes just glittered as he shrugged his broad shoulders, clothed in a perfect-fitting white collared shirt.

Christine giggled a little--was Sehun joking? She couldn't get a read on him. "I thought I recognized you, too, but you looked to different. Not just your hair color," she said, gesturing vaguely toward his head. Today, his hair was a much lighter shade. The jet-black hair was now a deep auburn. "There's something else…" Her voice trailed off lightly, not daring to suggest what she was thinking.

"Yeah, um," this time it was his turn to look away. "It's kind of the standard in Korea. I did it when I was very young, like, as soon as I hit puberty."

"Oh." Christine didn't know what to say. "Well, for what it's worth--you look really good," she offered, feeling a little silly. 

"I wasn't sure it was you at first, either. But when you talked about your music, I had a strong suspicion. The night of your gig, I was completely sure--I'd recognize your voice anywhere."

They both looked up at the same time, locking eyes for a brief moment--but neither were brave enough to hold each other's gaze. "So--you do realize I'm super jealous of you, right? Like--you're kind of living my dream right now."

"As a K-Pop idol? Christine--" his face suddenly grew serious. "It's not at all what you want to do. Sometimes I wonder if it's something even I want to do. But I don't have a choice anymore, anyway. But don't ever wish this on yourself," he said solemnly. 

Christine's brow suddenly furrowed. "What do you mean? Is it really that bad?"

Sehun looked down, speaking into his lap very quietly--as if someone were listening from the window, and he didn't want them to overhear. "I didn't have the surgery by choice."

"Oh, Sehun, I'm sorry," she said. She felt even more stupid now.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for all the opportunities it's given me--I wanted to have a dance career, but in the US, every casting director seemed to look over me. I wasn't--well, I wasn't white enough." Christine stayed silent, nodding a little to urge him on. "But when I finally submitted an online audition for a company in Korea--it was like night and day, Christine. Suddenly everyone was calling me, flying me out to Seoul. It happened so quickly."

"But--are you happy? With where you're at now?"

Sehun thought for a moment, weighing Christine's question carefully. "Yes. I've had some amazing experiences, and--I mean, it sure as hell beats a 9 to 5 job."

"But I mean--creatively? You're happy?"

"I get to dance and make millions of fans happy--that's really all I can ask for."

"Even if you can change one person's life for the better--that's all that matters, doesn't it?" Christine said, more talking to herself than to her neighbor on the balcony.

"Christine--you'll change people's lives. It's just a matter of when, not if." Sehun looked at her, giving an encouraging smile. 

"I hope so," she said quietly. "I just--I felt really off today. I didn't feel creative, I felt like I was just going through the motions of my work."

"Every day can't be perfect. Sometimes, you have to step away from it. Take a break. If you force yourself to be creative for every single second of every single day--it's not going to be fun anymore for you. It's just going to be work. It won't be any better than a regular 9 to 5."

"Thanks, Sehun." She looked at him, this time braving to hold eye contact for more than a second. "Really. I--I had kind of a weird day, so this helped."

"Oh? How weird?"

"You ever get the feeling like--like someone's watching you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for staying so loyal to this fic, you guys <3
> 
> Also, as a bit of a bonus, check out 'carmen' by Stromae--that's the main song that inspired this chapter!
> 
> Please let me know what you think, really, even if you don't like it. I'm sorry there isn't much Erik in this chapter, but I promise you'll see much more of him soon! :)


	9. Latch

The empty atrium made Christine's footsteps echo, bouncing across the marble. She made her usual route by climbing the grand staircase. Its height was equivalent to two enormous flights of stairs; it was so tall. Then, when she arrived on the floor for the premiere boxes, she began to walk parallel to the balustrades, counting them subconsciously. They served as her guide to the usual doorway, number twelve - it was a tall and narrow wooden door. Or perhaps it only looked so tall because it took a rather large step to arrive up at the threshold. 

She approached the young man clad in a smart-looking uniform, who was standing dutifully by the door with a bored-looking expression—until he caught her eye. Just then, his face spread into a grin—the pale, slight, but warm man, about Christine's age, had a southern American drawl as he exclaimed in a raised whisper, "Finally, what the hell took so long?"

"Sorry," Christine said, realizing she was slightly breathless from hurrying up from the box office. "It was us."

He raised an eyebrow. "What?"

And in sudden realization, they both chorused in unison: "Americans."

"I hate us," he said, crossing his arms in disgust. "Even when we speak the fucking language, they find some way to hold up the line—"

"Well?" Christine raised her eyebrow, cutting the young man short. She made a small gesture to the door behind her.

"Oh! Yeah, good news! You're all set. You have your phone on you?"

Christine nodded, patting her back pocket. "Let's hope that the wine down at Café de la Paix keeps flowing."

"Honestly, I wouldn't worry," he said, waving her suggestion away with one hand. "They tend to skip every other week, and they were here last week, so—"

"Thanks a million, Jordan," Christine said, giving a grateful smile. "I owe you some drinks one day."

"Of course you do. God, I'm so envious, I want to watch."

She whipped her head around, peering down the hall that led to more identical doors. "Can't you just get someone to cover your doors?"

Jordan's eyes grew wide, and he mimicked Christine, looking around in search of a fellow usher. "I—I dunno," he said slowly. "I'm the stupid American, I feel like they don't really like me."

"They're not trying to get into the Academy like you are! Just— ask. Like, bribe them if you have to," she pushed. "Besides, the worst they can say is no."

Something in that brief motivational speech worked, because Jordan suddenly had a spark in his eyes. "Alright, hang on." He rushed around the corner, back towards where Christine had entered the floor from the grand staircase.

Instead of waiting for Jordan, Christine lurched the door open and saw herself into the box. It had become something she looked forward to every week—not necessarily watching the performance, but just walking into the box. Passing over the threshold was like passing through some sort of time machine, into another era. The performance itself was somewhat of an afterthought—she now slowly began to sympathize with those who came to the opera purely for social events—to sit in such a grand palace of a theatre, who wouldn't want to dress their best, and try their damnedest to act like royalty? To see and be seen—? She made a mental note to shop for a new dress the next time Jordan snuck her into the box. Even in her relatively polished uniform for work— a neat white button-down with slacks—she wanted to feel beautiful and important, like someone in high society back then. She wanted to do something elegant, like hang an expensive coat in the small niche that divided the box from the doorway to the main atrium. She wanted to share a flute of champagne with someone during intermission, and maybe have that someone nuzzle her neck while sitting on the small bench behind the box seats, with the dividing curtain drawn, all alone with no one else to share a lovely, intimate moment, yet with people watching the show just feet away—maybe they'd share a laugh, maybe it'd sound like Sehun's laugh—

A hard, sharp jab of an elbow broke the illusion of Christine's wonderful fantasy. "Daydreaming about your boyfriend again, eh?" Jordan waggled his eyebrows despite Christine's quiet hiss. "Or, hang on, who are you texting this time? Your real boyfriend or your fake one?"

Christine tried to focus hard on the scene playing out before her despite Jordan's questioning. According to the projected French subtitles above the stage, brides-to-be were singing some droll duet about how wonderful and faithful their fiances were.

Another jab. "Come on, I saw you texting when I came in for my shift early to try and talk to you. You were on another planet. Who was it? Your real-life Korean pop idol boyfriend, or the random, creepy, online boyfriend?"

"He's not creepy," Christine jabbed him back with her elbow this time. Jordan giggled, and raised his eyebrows again with anticipation, knowing full well that Christine wouldn't stop there. "Tyler and I just have a lot in common. We can talk about—whatever," her voice trailed off a little as she finished her last sentence, choosing again to move all of her attention to the stage several yards ahead of her. 

"Sweetie, that's—weird," Jordan said, patting her knee with an air of sardonic pity.

"Yes, maybe for you, but this is how I met Meg," Christine shot back in a low tone. "I can read people very well online, and I know Tyler's cool."

"Okay, but isn't it a little weird that you've been talking to this—Tyler—like, more than anyone else lately? More than Sehun, more than Meg?"

"They're—busy," was all Christine could say. She wasn't wrong, but it wasn't their fault. They were extremely preoccupied; they were living their own life with performances, rehearsals, and tours. Christine—wasn't busy at all. She was bored. She hadn't heard from Isak or Paul for nearly a month. She tried calling both of them about a week ago, but with no response from either of them, Christine fell into something of a depression. It was only a few days after both of them had left town for a music video shoot that she had met Tyler.

With a new, instinctual flourish, she spun her phone out and unlocked it with one hand movement, and clicked to a new, purple-colored messaging app button. She had her phone silenced during work, so she had several new messages to scroll through, much to her delight.

"What is it now, your new boyfriend's got some new audios for you?"

"Oh, yeah, he found a set back from '96—holy shit, this is so rare, how the hell did he find this? And there's no static, no warping from the tapes, it's a perfect, in-line audio mix—" Christine stopped, realizing what Jordan had said. "And shut the hell up, he's not my boyfriend. I mean, he's just a guy. Who's a friend. That's all."

"So then, why is this guy doing all this for you? No, better question: How the hell does he know so much about that guy—Phantom, Le Fantôme, whatever?"

"Phantom's been around for years, so he's acquired a small kind of cult following over the years. Tyler is a new fan like me, but he's great at networking, finding people with old audio recordings in their collections, the right demo tapes that have been floating around in rundown studios for years—"

"Wait, Tyler? How is it that two Americans are totally obsessed with some random French guy?"

"Well, we can't technically prove that the Phantom is French," Christine pointed out.

"We," Jordan echoed. "You guys have gotten pretty close."

Christine just shrugged, wheels turning in her head as she gazed at the actors and chorus shifting around on the main stage. "I dunno. I wish I could explain it. First, it was just us swapping stories about our experiences and how we found out about Phantom. Then, the more we talked, we found that we just… have a lot to talk about. I think we're both just—"

"What? Bored? Sad losers who don't have anything better to do?"

"Jeez, Jordan, a little harsh," Christine couldn't help but sound hurt. "I need to break the monotony somehow. Meg and Sorelli aren't really around because the season's just started, and they might leave to go on tour. They're usually my tour guides, showing me around all the time, so—I dunno," she shrugged, her voice trailing off a little. Her face slowly started growing red. "And when Meg is off work, all they do is barhop and drink. It was fun for the first few weeks, but—"

"Yeah, the ballet corps kind of have a reputation, to say the least," Jordan nodded. 

"I don't know how Meg is alive. When she's not sleeping or dancing, she's raging," Christine marveled.

"So then what would you rather be doing? Besides the occasional drink or night out?"

"Well, I have to work… That's a given. I work on my music when I'm off, but… I don’t know," she trailed off again. Christine didn't have the energy to explain to Jordan the whole story. She hardly had it in her to explain it to anyone who asked as time had gone on. She didn't want to admit that things had come to a standstill, in several respects. She hadn't anticipated things to move at breakneck speed, and only just to come to a screeching halt.

Isak had been silent for over a week or so. The last time Christine had tried to ask for an update, he insisted that her work was done. It was only up to Paul now to finish the single. She wouldn't have any part in the final mixing or making the music video—it wasn't anything personal, Isak insisted. It's just part of the business. 

In a moment of mild desperation, Christine actually called Paul. She started off conversational, then she began to slowly poke and prod about the Carmen project. It wasn't that she didn't trust Isak, but—she had a hard time not taking it all so personally. Since she had made such fast friends with Paul during the pre-production phase, it was really comforting to hear his voice again—if only for a moment.

His voice had sounded so warm and comforting when he realized who was calling. "Christine! Oh, man, it's so good to hear your voice," and she genuinely believed him. 

"Paul, what the hell is going on?" she had asked, only half-joking. "Did some big studio execs kidnap you or something?"

"You know, you're not too far off," Paul said through his laughter. "I mean, they made me sign a non-disclosure agreement, but this one was, like—ten times longer than the one we had to sign together. I can't say anything about the single, not even to my parents," he lamented. "Believe me, if I could, I'd be texting, calling you every day if I could. Wait, do you know anything? Is Isak keeping tabs with you?" She could hear the glimmer of hope in his voice.

"No, but—it's fine, Paul. I would never make you break the NDA," Christine assured him. "It just… sucks. It's hard to tell if Isak is just way too busy, or if he's under contract too, or maybe…" she was too afraid to finish the sentence. She didn't want to assume the worst, but every so often, it would slowly creep into the back of her mind, threatening to slither its way into reality.

"No way, don't even think that for a second," Paul insisted. "I can't say anything, but—I can say it's definitely not what you might be thinking."

If nothing else, that had given Christine a bit of comfort. She wasn't entirely out of the picture, but from the way Paul had spoken about the situation, she also wasn't expecting to get a phone call from Isak tomorrow. 

"Focus on your music, you know, booking gigs and making a name for yourself," Paul reassured her. "There was nothing in your NDA that said you couldn't do that. I'm still working on stuff myself. I think—I think our song was a tipping point for me. It was, like, a domino effect, you know?"

"Yeah, I feel the same way, too," Christine agreed. "It was cool being able to develop a whole new sound. It was… inspiring." Christine knew her words wouldn't be enough for anyone else, but for Paul, it was more than adequate. They were both silent for a moment before Paul broke the tension, cajoling Christine into opening up about her new job at the Garnier. They exchanged stories, for Paul had a part-time job as a cashier himself. He encouraged her to stop by his boulangerie, though he had warned her that he had begun working fewer and fewer hours because he was devoting much of his time in the studio to finish up his project.

"Christine. Christine, can you at least turn down the brightness on your phone? Or, like, here's a wild idea—put it away?" Jordan muttered under his breath. "I'm actually trying to pay attention—maybe you should, too," he gestured towards the stage. Feeling more than a bit sheepish, Christine stuffed her phone in her pocket, and did her best to pay attention to what looked like Meg and Sorelli taking the stage. She tried her best to pay attention, but her mind was on other things. She was itching to listen to what Tyler had sent her—lately, that was really all she could look forward to.

That, and Sehun's FaceTime calls. But those were few and far between. Christine was usually the one begging to have him call her—God forbid she calls him, but that was the protocol. Sehun and his bandmates, while never explicitly stated, were not allowed to fraternize with anyone in any way that could even slightly suggest a romantic relationship. It would threaten their "idol" persona if any of their fans caught wind of the fact that they were seeing someone—it would shatter the illusion. Or, at least, that was one way Sehun tried to explain it during his last few days in Paris. He promised he would be back every now and then—for fashion shows, photo shoots, the occasional European press junket—but things were changing so quickly, Sehun couldn't promise her anything.

On top of all that, Sehun hadn't called or texted for several days now. Christine had already lost count—not because she didn't care, but because she had already gotten used to his bouts of absence from social media. Some days, he would have a lot of downtime, but those were few and far between since the group had recently begun preparing for their next comeback. That didn't involve just rehearsals, but strict diets, exercise regimens, and spa treatments. They had to look, act, dance, and sound like every young (and possibly old, Christine thought) Korean girl's dream boy. Being perfect was a hell of a lot of work.

Christine was so happy to have found someone—Tyler—who understood her. They obsessively swapped Phantom stories, sharing their opinion on his favorite songs, favorite outfits, favorite live sets, and trading the exceedingly rare photos that floated around the internet. It was a bit like tracking down pictures of Sasquatch—they were blurry and grainy, and they were all suspiciously similar, a dark clothed lanky figure whose face was always somehow conveniently covered by some accessory. Christine was partial to the outfits similar to when she saw him perform live, though she was glad to argue with Tyler about it. Tyler had insisted that his favorite outfit was the skeleton costume, with a plastic Halloween-looking face mask and all. That was one of the few pictures they had found that was of halfway decent quality—Christine supposed it wasn't every day that you see a skeleton spinning dubplates, so it was only fitting for audience members to snap a few photos.

The ballet corp's final movement had ended, much to Christine's relief, never mind the fact that she hadn't paid a single speck of attention. She bid a quick goodbye to Jordan: "I'm going to leave before they get out of wardrobe—I don't think I can do three nights in a row," she confessed, and Jordan obliged, following Christine's lead to return to his position at the front of the box's entrance door.

Christine hustled to get out of the theatre. It was extremely unlikely that Meg would head straight for the rotunda where Christine usually was stationed, skulking in or around the box office, or in the gift shop a floor above, but she didn't want to chance seeing her roommate lest she slow down to talk to her fellow coworkers. She barely waved goodnight to her supervisor, Alex, the one who still made feeble attempts to ask Meg out every now and again. Yet, once she was out and only mere yards from the Opera's enormous façade, she began to drag her feet, trudging all the way to the metro stop. 

She slowly began to realize what leaving her post at the Opera meant—skulking around her normal haunts, popping into lounges and clubs, looking to see if there were any no-shows or last-minute cancellations with the DJs who played their regular weekly schedules. Truthfully, she had begun to dread doing this— the constant shrugs of apologies from the managers, the well-meaning smiles from the bartenders—it was all beginning to blend together.

She sat in her own aisle on the metro; thankfully it was slow enough to where the car wasn't too crowded. Everyone was bundled up—once the sun started setting, the air was biting and cold. Christine loosened her scarf a little, staring up at the map as she counted the remaining stops. The stop before hers—there was a café she particularly liked just outside. It was still early, she thought to herself. And the weather was perfect—maybe she could stop by for a quick coffee. They make some amazing lattes, too, she thought as she ran through the menu in her head—

Screw it, she thought. I'm going to enjoy myself. 

The café was tiny and cozy—a relief from the hard weather and the cold metro. Warm fairy lights were decorated around the bar; they had gone up a week or so ago since winter had been creeping up faster than Christine could keep track of. Paris didn't have obnoxious, garish Christmas decorations like New York did. Maybe it was that, or maybe it was because Christine had been so preoccupied with work to notice any more decorations. Nonetheless, she couldn't believe how close the holiday season was.

She ordered an espresso because she didn't want to stay too long—though enjoying an entire latte would have been ideal, she knew she really should start making the rounds in the next thirty minutes or so. Digging her phone out of her coat, she realized she had missed several notifications—all from the same messaging app. From Tyler, to be specific. He had been sending her some new music recommendations. She felt bad leaving him hanging since they had been pinging back and forth all throughout the ballet performance—and during most of her shift, truthfully.

Christine stopped for a second, looking around about the café. There were only a few people in the shop, all of them either on their phones or laptops, not paying attention to the outside world, just as she had been a few moments ago. She thought about what Jordan said, and couldn't help to feel the slightest twinge of shame. Now that someone had said it out loud, it was nagging in the back of her mind—she was ignoring her real life friends. No, not just her friends: her real life altogether. She didn't have to think about the fact that she had only booked one real gig in the past few months, and it was a nearly empty lounge. The only real gig she had at all since moving here was the one at the Cavern. The one gig that now seemed so far away, it was starting to feel like she had dreamed it. 

Besides, it was safer talking to a stranger. That didn't make sense to anyone else but her, but she didn't have to worry about Tyler asking about her work, her music—he would only ask if she brought it up, which was such a relief. They could just obsess over music together. Tyler didn't make music, but he was a fan just as much as she was. They could talk for hours—every time they talked, it was like talking to an old friend, even though they had known each other for a week or so. They would take turns venting about what was frustrating them—yesterday, it was Tyler venting about a music trader online who had tried to scam him. For Christine, it was usually Meg's bad habits of not cleaning up after herself in the kitchen.

She was well aware that it was —well, maybe not the most orthodox relationship. It wasn't like her and Meg's online relationship before they had met and become roommates. They had nothing to hide—they were always video chatting, sending each other gifts—it was the electronic equivalent of having a best friend who lived down the street from you. They gabbed about meaningless topics that otherwise seemed so important at the time—boys, boyfriends, their opinions on who was the cutest Hollywood actor, the cutest pop star—that sort of thing. But there were some things she told Tyler that she hadn't told anyone else. It was so easy to open up to him, which in itself was shocking because they had been only using the chat message feature. It had only been a week or so, after all—

As she began unwinding her headphones to plug into her phone, a figure approached her small table. "Espresso, pour Christine?"

Christine jumped a little, slamming her phone down with a start. "Uh—oui, merci," she stammered, trying to smile in spite of her awkward reaction. The barista smiled, and muttered, "Bonne dégustation," before scooting back behind the bar to help the next customer. Christine inwardly groaned—why must she be so awkward? She tried to shake it off as she put on her earbuds—but something was—trilling? What was that sound? It sounded like a dial tone, but she had never heard that exact tone before.

Unlocking her phone, her messaging app was open—and a phone icon was taking up the entire screen. She was making a call. A call to—Tyler. What? How did that happen? She didn't even know that there was an audio chat feature. She froze in place. Should she cancel the call? Maybe—maybe she should let it ring. She waited, with bated breath. Only a few more rings passed until it stopped, and the screen changed from "calling Tyler…" to "Call duration - 0:01," and it was counting up.

He accepted the call. But neither of them were talking.

"Uh…Tyler?" Christine said, speaking into the microphone built into her right headphone wire. A long pause. Until, finally—

"Hey—Hi. Yeah, it's me. Christine?" It was a wonderful, rich American accent. He sounded young, too. What a relief, Christine thought inwardly.

"Oh, hi," Christine laughed a little, suddenly feeling breathless. "Hi, I—I'm sorry, you didn't have to pick up—"

"Why did you call?" Tyler sounded more worried than Christine would have liked. What was he thinking? Christine tried to quiet her thoughts as the wheels in her head turned—should she tell the truth? That she was just being her usual absentminded, socially awkward self around strangers?

"I—no reason," she said. It was half-true, wasn't it? "I guess I—I wanted to see if you'd pick up. I'm sorry, I feel silly now," she admitted.

"Shouldn't you be at work?" He remembered.

"Well—in a sense," she confessed. "I'm just—procrastinating. Wait, does that mean—you don't want to talk to me? Trying to cut me off?" She said, half-playfully.

"No, I'm—I'm actually totally free. Work's been really slow."

"Oh. Well… good." She smiled into the microphone. Her whole body was humming, vibrating. The sound of his voice—it felt—what did it feel like? She tried to compare it to a previous sensation—like drinking a hot cup of tea, or returning home after a long day of work. 

He continued, and Christine suddenly forgot what she was thinking. She hung on to his every word.

"Did you listen to that new track I just sent you?"

"Oh, not yet, no—why? Is this a new haul?"

"Yeah, one of my usual sellers hooked me up. Don't ask me where I got it, but—it also had some stems of that record we were talking about a few days ago."

"Wait. Stems? Not from… Phantom?"

"Yeah, I'm uploading them right now."

"Okay… I want to know so badly how you got these. Seriously. Like… not even a hint?"

"Some guy owed me big time. He has connections to someone who can access these old soundboards for performances, and it just so happens that Phantom mixes stems live and had them programmed into the soundboard of the venue."

"What the fuck. Oh my god, Tyler, that's amazing, thank you so much. I owe you bigtime."

"I know you'll use them well. But just for safety, I want to just put it out there: please don't leak them or anything like that, because if they were to get out—honestly, I'd probably get in huge trouble."

"I promise. But I'll probably… I dunno, would it be bad if I sampled them or tried to mix them into parts of my live set?"

"Uh… I mean, if you're performing them live, I doubt it would cause for any alarm, so I'd say—go for it. If anything, I feel like—I dunno. I feel like Phantom would—he wouldn't mind. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yeah," Christine laughed breathily. "It's weird, but I—I have this feeling he'd get kind of a kick out of it. He doesn't seem the type to go after someone with a cease and desist letter if they're doing a clever sample of his work."

"Clever being the operative word," Tyler shot back. "Here, check out this Phantom imposter video I found—it's this guy dressed up in a Prague discotheque trying to do the same thing, play his exact records. At least, he played really awful bootleg versions. It's actually pretty hilarious."

Christine cried out, and clapped a hand over her mouth. She had almost forgotten she was in a public spot, and gave only a feeble attempt to quiet her laughter. "Oh my god! But—how do you know it's a fake? I feel like it would be pretty easy to have different people claim to be him. Very Banksy, you know?"

"No, look at this video," before Tyler even finished his sentence, Christine's phone trilled quietly, announcing the new message he had sent that contained the link to the aforementioned content. Christine immediately jabbed the thumbnail, and there it was, a counterfeit Phantom: It was a much shorter, stockier man, who was barely mixing anything live—if nothing else, he was only hitting a button every few minutes or so, as if to queue up the next song. 

"He might as well have had an iPod plugged in," Tyler said, almost affectionately. "But, it's not him, I'd bet my life on it."

"No you're right—and plus, Phantom has this energy. It's that spark that you get during a really amazing live show—only a handful of certain performers can give that to the whole audience, especially to strangers. I'm still so pissed to this day that I didn't think to take out my phone and record him. But that's how he is—he makes you so lost in the mix, it's unbelievable."

Tyler was quiet for a moment. This was the only real lull in the conversation since it had begun, so at first Christine worried that perhaps she had said something wrong. But then, quietly in the background, Tyler's mic picked up some of his more fervent keyboard tapping. Christine guessed he was pulling up another video—and she was right. Another trill from her phone sounded.

"I know what you mean. I think this video—this one's my favorite. It's kind of different from what you were describing he played those few weeks ago at Le Cavern, but—I dunno. Just watch it, let me know what you think."

Christine didn't need to be told twice.

-x-

A few hours had flown by—and Christine had gotten a very panicky text from Meg. "Where the hell are you??? I'm back from the bars, is everything okay?"

"Oh my god—shit, I have to go," Christine said, apologizing profusely. "I don't mean to cut you off, it's just, my roommate is waiting for me back home, I don't want to worry her any more than I already have."

"Oh, it's fine. I'm sorry, I feel bad, I've kept you for so long. I just—it's been a really slow week for me; I don't have much going on."

Another pause. Christine took a deep breath, and exhaled through a big wide smile. "I—this was really fun, Tyler. I needed someone to geek out with, like—seriously. I'm glad I accidentally sort of—butt-dialed you," she said, chuckling. "And thanks for hooking me up with all these new mixes and videos. Really."

She heard him laugh a little—it was quiet, so she strained a little to hear him through her headphones. "No, thank you—Christine. I needed it, too, I'm—I don’t have a lot of friends that are that obsessed with this kind of stuff like I am, you know?"

"Yes, I—I know exactly what you mean. I have friends who say they like electronica and house music as much as the next person, but the moment I start talking more in-depth, their eyes just—they sort of glaze over. They have no idea what I'm talking about."

Another soft laugh. "Yes, that sounds very familiar."

"Okay, well I have to go, for real.” Christine stood up and walked out of the café, heading towards the metro stop, but she kept her headphones in, sliding the volume level a bit higher so that the street noises would drown out a little. “But maybe we can talk again? Will you be around this weekend?"

"More than likely, yes. Work is slow for me, but only if you want to talk." He sounded polite, but underneath, Christine could just make out his smile as he spoke. Her heart skipped a beat, and she laughed in spite of it: this was one of the best conversations she had had in weeks. The cold, crisp air felt sharper on her warm, rosy cheeks and face, but she didn’t mind in the least. The voice on the other line gave her a warm, swelling sensation in her chest cavity—like nothing she’d felt in awhile. Maybe not since Phantom, at Le Cavern…?

"Okay, well—it was nice to finally meet you, Tyler. Or—to finally talk to you, I guess. In person." Christine couldn’t help but laugh at her own awkward closing statement—it wasn't exactly the most traditional way of meeting someone for the first time.

"Oh, sorry, I had completely forgotten to tell you. My—my name isn't Tyler. It's just my pseudonym when I'm trolling on threads and chat rooms for music trading.” He paused, but Christine said nothing. In fact, she had nearly stopped dead in her tracks on the sidewalk, straining to hear his next sentence. ”My name's Erik. Call me Erik."

“That’s a nice name,” she said without thinking, echoing his name. “Erik.” The line on the other end was dead silent. Throughout the whole conversation, he had been relatively soft-spoken and shy, but now, it was even more apparent. It dawned on Christine that he probably didn’t reveal his true name very often—let alone using the voice chat feature on a mainly text-based chat server. Perhaps this was way off-base, but Christine suddenly felt very special—he had been giving her so much this past week, audios and videos and unreleased demos, but this was different somehow. 

She finally spoke again. "Good night, Erik," Christine chorused back sweetly, through a smile that couldn’t go away. 

She didn't hear it, but his heart was hammering wildly in his chest on the other line, only a few miles away from her as she traipsed down the old, wet concrete stairs to her metro stop. That evening, two hearts were made lighter—both lighter than they had been for quite a long time.


End file.
